This is what happens...

...when you find the one - part 3: Voldemort's final appearance

2018-04-09T09:28:00.002-07:00

Thomas moved out of his apartment and into mine, in August of 2014. He proposed with a beautiful vintage-style ring, on December 13th; and after realizing we both had the day off, and no desire to not be married, we had a courthouse ceremony on a Wednesday—March 11 2015—Thomas’ 29th birthday. My 30th birthday party, that following May 6, served as our rooftop Manhattan reception.

For my boy's 5th birthday, as per Thomas’ suggestion, I went on my first family vacation—to Disney World—since Las Vegas nearly a decade earlier. This time we included Jari’s husband, toddler, and unborn daughter; Josie’s fiancé and their unborn son; as well as Thomas, my son, and of course my parents. During that vacation, my father—whom had long since stopped being the angry man that I grew up with—thanked Thomas for coming into our lives.

On the following December 13th—while I hadn’t been running nearly as much—I completed my first half marathon: The Frozen Bonsai in Central Park.

We have not seen or heard from Voldemort—a man whom I constantly feared was repeating the same abuse I suffered through his hands, with our own child—since that summer of 2014. It was as if I paid him $3,000 to never hurt us again; and I would have gladly paid more. Thomas and I enrolled my son in the gifted and talented program for kindergarten and first grade. He is doing amazing at home and in school, and has a constant, loving father figure—which has been daddy since the very beginning. I have found the most wonderful man to call my husband; and we are raising our son in a loving home, not angry household.

My dearest son,

Thinking about the things I’d say—the things I’d want you to understand—makes me instantly want to cry. I want you to know that I love you so much—that your beautiful little face, with its bright and sleepy, morning smile, is the best thing I’ve ever seen. I fell in love with you immediately after conception, and even though you don’t see him very often anymore, your father felt the same way.

He is no longer in your life because you deserve better than what he offers you. I will strive to be better so that you never miss him. Yes, he made you with me, but that’s about all the contribution he’s had in your life. He provided for us for a brief period—then left us with the option of either never having enough, or forcing me to find work and leaving you in his care. I’m not sure that was the best choice, but at the time, I needed out of that house. I needed to take responsibility and work for our family. Your father was not the kind of person I would’ve liked to leave you with, but I was in denial and hoped that he was doing things right, while knowing he probably wasn’t.

He would ignore you, while he got stoned, watched porn, played games, ate shit, and let you pretty much do whatever you wanted. This led you to prefer him to me. You liked that you could eat potato chips and candy, and watch video games all day—starved for boundaries and discipline. You didn’t like it when I tried to get you to eat a balanced meal—or when I turned off the TV. You didn’t know I was doing it for your own good. You didn’t know that I was parenting all alone and struggling to do the right things.

Your father is not in your life anymore but you have daddy to take his place; and you’re better off without the relationship you would have had with the former. He loves you and I’m sure thinks of you often, but his influence over you is damaging; and I feel that instead of dragging this on for the rest of your adolescence, I’d rather just cut that cord now and do away with his existence completely.

It hurts me to think of how confused you must be. You loved your father and don’t know why he’s not around; and although a part of him probably relishes the fact that he can go back to being careless with his life, without the guilt of neglecting you—if he ever had any guilt—I know a small part also misses you; but he’s a sociopath, my darling. He’s a liar, and the worst of all liars, because he believes his own lies. He’s damaging to himself and to all of those around him.

I want you to grow up without wanting for anything, so you will have my attention and affection, and you will have daddy’s as well. You don’t need your father, because he will only ever take from you the way he tried to take everything from me. He will never give you anything, my sweet boy. Best thing he could’ve done for you is leave.

...when you find the one - part 2

2018-04-05T09:59:00.001-07:00

Thomas quickly swept me off my feet. After that first night of drinking and kissing, we spent nearly every day together. I quit smoking right away; and on April 20th—a year after he had pushed me to make the move that I had always wanted to make—we made our relationship Facebook official.

Sometimes—many times—I feel like it should’ve been you. The way you think and reason things; the way you see what has to be done and find it difficult to not do those things; the way you want to please and take care of everyone; your selflessness, dependability, attitude, and quirks. And I truly love your voice. I’m a huge sucker for a sexy voice; not just someone that can sing—which I know you can—but someone that can make me bite my lip with just a few uttered words. You do that. I also love the voices that you do. I love that you’re always making me laugh; and that I am also able to make you laugh. I think I’m pretty funny, but usually too awkward to get the timing of a joke just right—that’s not the case with you. I know sometimes you feel like you talk too much, but that’s only because I’m too wrapped up in what you’re saying, to think of anything to say myself. I want to be yours. I want to see every version of you; the one that’s scared and the one that’s brave; the angry and the calm; the meek and the outgoing; the sober and drunk; the somber and happy. I want you to be mine.

We soon realized the extent of our similarities—on more than one occasion, as utterly cliché as it sounds, literally finishing each other’s sentences. It was, we were, we are disgustingly perfect.

I realized that you were the one I had to be with, when I would feel anxious just thinking about letting someone else know me completely. I didn’t want them to know I had an angry face; an addicted mind; a gluttonous, slothy, self-conscious body. I wanted to be this perfect version of myself, without letting them see the real me. You saw the real me from day one—and even helped me to feel like the real me was perfect.

Then on June 12 2014, over a decade after we had met, I stopped accepting Voldemort's lies. After hearing repeated excuses as to why we had yet to receive our tax return, I stopped asking and told him that I knew he had received and spent the money, and was sure he had hoped to find another job that would pay him enough to repay me before I had noticed. He admitted that I was right. It was all gone. He had spent it on trips, drugs, and clothes for himself. Furious, I kicked him out and in the process of removing his things from the closet, found empty baggies of cocaine, which convinced me that I was doing the right thing. I told him I would not report him to the police if he managed to repay the money he had stolen. He promised that he would, but could only afford two checks for a hundred each, before he stopped coming around.

My father flew up in July, met and fell in love with Thomas; and Thomas and I went on a ten-day vacation. We flew to San Francisco—spent a few days in Walnut Creek, where I met some of his extended family—and went wine tasting in Napa Valley. We then drove down the coast to L.A., slept a couple of nights in the nicest hotel I had ever stayed, caught a show at The Improv Comedy Club—where he met a fellow voice actor who referred him to his current talent agency—and had VIP passes to Universal Studios for the following day. Then we flew to Chicago for a few days—went out, drank, and had traditional deep-dish pizza. I had never been on a trip that could compare, and quickly lost count of the many new and different things that I saw and experienced—all the while, falling deeper in love than I thought possible. By the end, over-stuffed and exhausted, we eagerly flew back to New York and to my son.

I’m in love and I can’t shake it.

The thought of him at once awakened.

I can’t deny that I’m consumed

By the obsession which has bloomed

From the bond I overlooked,

And the feelings that I mistook

To be nothing but a caring

For the past we have been sharing,

Instead of what they really are—

Signs and signals from afar,

Claiming that this friendship grown

Is in fact my one true home.

...when you find the one - part 1

2018-04-03T11:33:00.001-07:00

Meanwhile, Voldemort claimed to be looking for housing, while transitioning from managing one restaurant to another. Thomas was there for me all along; and I was starting to think that maybe there was something between us. We had gone out a few nights; and I even drunkenly kissed him a bit, but was nervous about allowing what was beginning to feel like the natural evolution of our relationship. He was my only friend after all, and the risk of losing him felt too great.

I’m looking for something I’ll never find—that’s been the case for my whole sad life. When I was a kid, my dad would misplace his things—things my sisters’ and I had no interest moving—and would blame us; because his memory was shot and clearly the kids had to have played with his tools and put them somewhere other than where he clearly remembered them being. We would spend hours looking for things we knew we wouldn’t find. It would feel like purgatory—forced to search for all eternity. Eventually he’d find whatever it was, wherever he had actually put it, and the search would be over; but the trauma would stay with me. To this day, I can’t handle looking for a lost object. I get anxious, and the feeling of not having any control in the outcome overwhelms me. That’s how I feel now. I’m looking for someone to reciprocate my feelings, my attention, my desires, my passions and compassions. I’m looking for someone that I’ll never find—someone that doesn’t exist. It makes me feel like I’m never going to get the only thing I ever really wanted.

As I was wallowing in my despair, I received a message on Facebook from Jourdan.

Hey Jane,

Not sure if you remember me, but you appeared in my suggested Twitter feed, and I wanted to see how everything is. Are you still in New York City? How is everything going? How is your little one? Hope you’re doing well.

I was definitely not expecting to hear from my handsome interviewer from the previous July. Reading his message, I was not sure what to think; but following a quick glance at his profile, I determined that he was single, had seemingly tracked me down, and employment did not appear to be his motive.

Jourdan seemed like the very person I had been searching for all along. He was good looking, attentive, kind, and successful. We spent a couple of weeks chatting and texting until he finally asked me to dinner.

I liked him right away, but being with Jourdan somehow just felt like a continuation of the interview we had the year prior—which he admitted had only happened because he found me attractive after stumbling upon my long neglected fashion blog. Still, I was happy to have something new, and when the date ended, I kissed him and spent the rest of the evening fantasizing about the next time I would see him.

Having Jourdan to think about meant that Thomas and I could continue with our friendship unchanged. We would still talk every day, and he seemed genuinely happy that I was finally receiving the kind of attention I deserved.

I miss Jourdan and I just saw him. I love his face. I could just watch him talk all day. I should be working, but I’d much rather think of him. He’s making me nervous. I’m filled with so much stupid happiness. I don’t know what to do with it all—so I sing, dance, run, write, dream, and hope it doesn’t go away. I can’t push the thought of him out of my head.

Jourdan and I had been seeing each other for just a couple of weeks, but I was putting all of my pent up romantic expectations on him—imagining him to be the perfect partner I had been dreaming about. However, we were not exclusive. I was allowing the positive attention to feed my self-esteem, and using that energy to fuel my flirtatious spirit. Thomas and I had a back and forth rhythm of banter that felt like second nature—as if we had been that way our whole lives—and I was letting myself like him; being with Jourdan provided a safety net.

Voldemort, during this time, was filing our taxes as he had always done. I never bothered with the process and trusted that he would be able to do it himself, as he claimed. He used TurboTax and we were set to receive a return of over $6,000. The plan was to split the money. He would use his half to put a deposit on a new apartment, and I would be able to use mine to pay for my son's preschool—the only expense Voldemort had been responsible for since we had moved from Miami.

By the end of March, we had yet to receive the money. Voldemort claimed the IRS had attempted to make a deposit into the wrong account, and after realizing their mistake, were set to mail a check to us in a few weeks. In the meantime, he had planned a weekend trip with our son to visit family.

In anticipation of Voldemort's trip, I took that Friday off of work to give myself an extra full day of vacation. I met Jourdan for lunch and afterwards, he sent me a text with the caption, "I'm all yours." I responded to his text, inquiring as to whether he was alluding to our exclusivity, to which he replied by sending another image captioned, “No, but now I am,” with the question: “Will you go out with me?”

I was unsure as to whether or not I was ready for that step, but assumed his text meant that he was. I invited him to spend the weekend at my apartment, and hoped things would continue favorably.

After our weekend together, interactions with Jourdan began to feel forced. I asked him if he had wanted to make our relationship Facebook official, but he explained that he was not ready for that yet. His messages were scarce and impatient after that. I did not know what had caused the shift, but I hoped it would be temporary.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I like him, but I feel like things are moving too fast. I’m not sure if I should talk to him or just let things be. Maybe we can talk tomorrow night. Having him in my head all day, every day, is making it very difficult to write about anything else.

I spoke to Thomas about my doubts, and he agreed that things seemed off. For Jourdan to want to be exclusive but to fear making our relationship public, seemed like a contradiction. He suspected that perhaps all Jourdan had really wanted was the intimacy we shared that weekend, and once he got that, had lost interest. I agreed; and without the distraction of everyone else—Rizi long gone, and Jourdan having been suddenly and for days since unavailable—I found myself wanting to spend more time with Thomas.

By April, Thomas was coming over my house most every night. We would talk, flirt, and kiss—and it felt as if we were getting along better than I had with anyone else. I decided that whatever I had first felt with Jourdan, was not enough to continue the relationship—but could not quite end things without seeing him again.

You know how people say that those little quirks you find endearing at the beginning of a relationship will end up being what drives you nuts towards the end? Well that’s happening. Why can’t Jourdan bother to spell out, “definitely”—it’s not that hard. It’s like he either isn’t sure as to the spelling or just simply doesn’t have the time to type an entire word. It was cute at first—I imagined him using the word “def” in colloquial conversation. It was an ironic contrast to his proper and professional outward appearance; but now, it’s just infuriating. I go through the trouble of correctly formulating a three or four-sentence text—with appropriate grammar and punctuation—and his response is a five or six-word sentence fragment, that’s missing the subject, and is including the aforementioned slang.

I set a date with Jourdan that he finally agreed to make, and was ready to tell him how I felt. It was raining that evening—already off to a bad start—but speaking to Thomas throughout the day, I decided to share a drink with him by my job, while I waited to meet Jourdan; and hoped the rain would let up.

We sat and drank at an Irish pub on Wall Street; and I found myself wishing Jourdan would cancel, allowing me to go home with Thomas, but I knew I needed to end things. About an hour later—the rain still coming down—Thomas and I left the pub and headed to the subway station; but after finding the platform brimming with expectant passengers, decided to catch a cab instead.

Standing on the corner of Wall Street, huddled under an awning, Thomas quickly realized he would need to move closer to the street if he expected to call a passing taxi. He left me to my shelter and stood in the rain. Five minutes later—still waiting for our ride—a man exited the store I stood in front of, noticed that Thomas and I were together and pointed towards him, saying, “That’s a good guy you have there.”

Riding towards midtown, discussing what we would do if we could go home together, I told Thomas I would just cancel my date with Jourdan; and that’s when he called—telling me he was swamped with work but would be getting out soon. I suggested that we reschedule; but he quickly convinced me that taking a rain-check was not an option. Slightly disappointed, I told Thomas I would call him and perhaps we could meet afterwards.

Jourdan and I ate our meals in relative silence, and soon paid and left. He drove me to my apartment, parked around the corner, began kissing me; and when he recommended we take the action to his backseat, I obliged—having been trained to never say no, regardless of my lack of interest. When he was done, I addressed the lingering topic; and instead of going in the direction of a breakup, he told me that he did not want to rush into anything. I somehow let him convince me that taking it slow was what I wanted. I left his car, weighed by the feeling of having made a mistake, and failed to call Thomas.

The next day, Thomas’ devastation was obvious as I confessed the events of the previous evening. We agreed not to speak for a few days; and the knowledge of having hurt him, lingered like a ghost. I could not stop talking about it to anyone who would listen. I needed to convince myself that I had done the right thing.

The situation with Jourdan did not improve. His messages were still trickling in like a leaky faucet—annoyingly steady, yet utterly unsatisfying. I messaged him whenever I felt it was appropriate, over-analyzed every response, excused his aloofness, and hoped that the nagging feeling, which told me to quit, was wrong—that I had not made a mistake.

After almost a week since speaking to Thomas, every aspect of my life began to suffer. I was sinking into sadness and had no one to lean on. I was also smoking almost half a pack a day—it seemed my only reprieve. My temper got shorter the longer I went without him. I felt the same emptiness that overtook me in the fall. After holding out—knowing it would be unfair for me to rip a fresh scab—I caved and messaged Thomas on Facebook.

I let him know I was off of work due to my boy being sick; and after we had exchanged a few messages, I received a text from Thomas. He asked me to go outside; and I used that opportunity to grab a cigarette. Once I opened my door, I noticed him standing by my front gate.

He sulked and looked the most miserable I had ever seen him. I invited him up once I had finished my cigarette; and he appeared defeated as he followed me upstairs.

I tried to make him talk to me—as we stood awkwardly in my kitchen—but he remained frozen in his sadness; so I talked. I spoke about my aon's being sick; feeling helpless to his fever and lack of appetite; the frustration that came with being unable to help my child. I cried and could not stop. The tears turned from my child to me. I rambled endlessly about essentially feeling like a lesser version of myself—bad mother, bad friend, and bad to myself above all else. His face melted. He scooped me up in his arms, realizing that I had been suffering just as much as he had. I spoke about everything I had wanted to but could not in the last six days. I talked and cried for what felt like hours—like a dishcloth wrung dry of all its contents. When I was weak and dry, limp and ratty, we attempted to feed the sick boy, but failed. Thomas then made up his mind to pick up every medicine, snack, kid’s vitamin, and supplement drink that he could find.

Once he left, I questioned how I managed to survive my life without him. He was not only selfless, kind, generous, thoughtful, honest, funny, smart, loyal, talented, and determined, he was also utterly and hopelessly in love with me; and he had seen me more completely than I had ever let anyone see me. He knew every flaw, every indiscretion, and every aspect of me. I feared I was something awful and cruel, and that he would somehow end up broken because of me. I doubted my feelings but could not determine exactly where the doubt stemmed from—too scared to admit that I saw myself the way I did; that I was crazy and evil, and did not deserve a person like Thomas.

Then Voldemort messaged, letting me know he had run into Thomas as he was leaving the pharmacy with bags of things for my son—on his way to the grocery store for more. Voldemort got home—like a tornado coming to take away my silent introspection; and I questioned his empty hands, thinking he would have brought the things Thomas had purchased for our son.

After a few minutes of waiting for him to return, I went outside for another cigarette, and found Thomas sitting on my stoop—huffing in irritation. He was upset that Voldemort was being his usual absentee self; and the desire to embrace him overwhelmed me. We made sure to medicate and feed the boy, left him with Voldemort after he had neglected him all day, and went out.

As the night progressed—hopping bars while holding hands—I found my slightly intoxicated lips meeting Thomas’ at every available instance. We would smile at each other, laugh, talk, and kiss as if the week before had never happened. The next morning, Thomas and I called out of work and spent the entire day together.

I was technically still seeing Jourdan, but decided—rather than giving him another opportunity to talk me out of it—that I’d send him an email telling him it was over.

I've been feeling like I should end things between us. I really like you, but you're different than what I thought; or at least, you seemed different at first—more available—more interested. You're busy, and that's understandable, but I would like something other than what we have—and I don't want to pressure you into anything you're not ready for. I had intended to tell you this in person, but figured it'd be better if I save us both the time, energy, and awkward exchange.

...when you fall in love with a cheater - part 3

2018-03-24T08:49:00.000-07:00

Voldemort and I were officially over in January 2014—after weeks of antagonism—but continued cohabiting and co-parenting until our hatred for one another dissipated. Thomas was the first person I told. Coincidentally, he was also in the process of moving Nat out of his apartment. A decade later, regardless of how far we had come, I was still complaining about Voldemort to him. I was thankful for Thomas—the only friend I was speaking to at the time—but was ignorant to what I later realized was an obvious attraction. My experience with men had ruined my perception. In my eyes, he was just being nice—nothing for me to pursue. Besides, he was planning to leave for the west coast; and I was too busy thinking about Rizi.

Several weeks had passed since I first read his email. It seemed he cared about me; but I was unable to ignore that while he had finally done what I wanted—broken up with his girlfriend—it took him only two months to find someone new. Still, I decided that I would send him an email.

Rizi,

I've received your message, and always start to reply, but can never bring myself to send anything. You've been on my mind a lot lately; I hope you're doing well. You seem happy. I would like to regale you with tales of New York, and how my whole life is somehow coming together, but the truth is that besides my zip code and friendlessness, everything's pretty much the same. I'm learning to see the good in every bad situation, and feel better for it. My life here is more difficult, but has the potential to be more interesting. Right now the plan is to keep moving forward—"if I look back, I am lost." I miss you.

Rizi and I exchanged several messages in the span of two days, and were soon flirting again—trying to preserve a platonic friendship, but unable to stray from our usual pattern. I knew he was seeing someone, but it did not matter. I felt truly wanted again, and began sending him pictures at his request; but he would not let me forget that it could never go any further.

I love sending you pictures because I know you love them, and I’m an exhibitionist at heart. You make me feel sexy enough to take pictures; so why not send them to you for further validation? My problem is not with the pictures, but rather with the fact that you feel the need to remind me that we cannot be together. I know we can’t be together. I don’t think I would actually want to be with you if we could be together. You’re dishonest and unfaithful. I love a lot of things about you, but you’re not exactly in a position to give me what I need—and there’s a huge possibility I would constantly be paranoid that you’re off making some other unsuspecting girl fall in love with you. I’m trying to keep this where it is, even when I express my feelings for you. Don’t confuse my trying to absorb every aspect of this infatuation, with my wanting a relationship beyond it.

I planned to see Rizi in Nashville that upcoming March, but could not wait and resorted to stalking him on social media—soon finding his girlfriend. I was inundated with pictures of the bouquets he had sent her, their smiling faces pressed together, and her captions—best boyfriend ever. I could no longer ignore that what we were doing was wrong, and started to slowly distance myself.

I’m afraid I want to pull away, and soon. It’s frustrating, feeling like you’re giving someone a part of you, and they in turn give that part of themselves to someone else. I know you say it’s not too serious, but that doesn’t matter to me. It exists, and that’s serious enough. I’m using you as fuel, but I can’t let you burn up anymore of my love. I can’t wait for you. You’re setting up a life for yourself and I don’t see what role I can play. The only one that seems obvious is not one that I’m willing to fill. I gravitate towards you because something about you reminds me of the person I want to be with forever. I’m not interested in less. I can’t live my life looking forward to the small bit of attention you’re willing to give me. I know that what I want is someone to be that person for me, but I know I can’t sit around waiting for that. I need to live my life. I thank you for the boost you’ve given me. But I’m not sure if you need to stick around. I’m not sure I can go visit you. I don’t want to be another notch for you—it’s not worth it for me. My feelings for you are a constant reminder that I want something more—something you can’t give me. I enjoy our friendship, but can’t enjoy the flirtation any longer.

Rizi sensed my distance and started to claim that he would breakup with his new girlfriend for me; but I suspected he was simply leading me on and ultimately, it no longer mattered. I knew we could never have what I wanted—a loving and trusting relationship. As much as he seemed to be the opposite of Voldemort—what with his goals and aspirations—he also seemed too much like him for me to ignore.

The words you use sketch an inaccurate, impossible image. You claim to feel things that you do not feel—to want things that you do not want—creating an erroneous outline for me to color in. “I want to be with you,” you say—causing me to picture a future. I imagine us together, holding hands, laughing, making love. I see you and me at dinners, walks, and movies. I suddenly want the life I’ve invented. I want it so much that I confuse my desires with necessity. I forget that everyone is merely a step in our growth. I let my evolution end as I wade in thoughts of day trips, dancing, and the sweet romancing you promise. But you can’t keep this up for long. The mask slips. “I don’t know how we could make it work,” you whisper. The future I envisioned with you lifts away. I notice your distractions, detachment, and deceptions. I start to notice you for who you are and not for who you want me to see. You are the impatient texter with utter lack of empathy—I can’t take ten minutes to reply but you’ll leave me waiting hours for a response—the disloyal flirt that will make anything in a skirt feel special—motivated by the chance that she’ll make you feel special by losing her skirt. Sure you’re smart—you’re a snob about it; okay, you have determination—for career goals, not physical, relationship, or spiritual; and yes, you are charming—but it’s a repetitive charm that grows stale very quickly. I can tell you’ve carefully constructed this persona that manipulates most to your whim. I’m no longer hooked on your line, but watching with clarity as you cast it out into the waiting, willing waters. I finally see you as you are: someone to help lead me to my fated future, and not the painting I’ve created from your colorful words.

I wanted to end whatever was happening between us, but Rizi would not let me go. He continued to send me unwanted texts, until I threatened to contact his girlfriend; but the silence between him and I was brief. He doubted I would actually do it; yet after receiving another text, I sent his girlfriend a message on Facebook and a direct message on Instagram.

She never received my messages—her silence dictated as much—but I could not put it out of my mind. I dreamt one night that the two of them had gone to my apartment to clear out their belongings. They were moving in together and were ignoring my efforts to stop them. I then saw her mother and told her everything. She thanked me for my honesty, saying she would see to the relationship’s termination.

The next day, I awoke with newfound determination. Scouring Facebook, I found and messaged her father—briefly describing the situation. She responded days later, gave me her number, and asked that I send her screenshots of the texts her boyfriend and I had exchanged. Rizi had his phone records subpoenaed, hoping to prove I was lying; and it seemed to work until a few weeks later when I received his final text: “Well, you win. We’re over.”

...when you fall in love with a cheater - part 2

2018-03-23T08:43:00.000-07:00

I thought, that having lived for the majority of my life in Miami, I would be accustomed to city living; but in reality, Miami was never an actual city. There were aspects of it that resembled a city: Miami Beach, for example—with its ample sidewalks littered with shops, restaurants, and hotels; as well as Downtown—with all the bars and clubs. Brickell and Coral Gables, outside of the residential, resembled the Upper West Side blocks of Manhattan—with their manicured trees and posh establishments. Other than that however, Miami was no city—merely a tangle of suburbs connected by the most convoluted highways, and featuring the worst public transportation system.

New York City was quite different. Exploring was infinitely easier than in Miami. One could step outside and walk a few blocks to the closest subway station, and take that to wherever. Stepping out of the train, there always seemed to be a new playground, park, or neighborhood, and endless things to see—street performers, beautiful architecture, and the many different faces of the New York City residents.

I had been in New York for just a couple of days; and having sent out dozens of emails while still in Miami, had hoped to have a few interviews lined up. Unfortunately, The New York Times had not shown much interest in my resume. I only had one promising possibility to work as a writer for an online women’s publication.

On Monday, July 29th, arriving at a Madison Avenue office building earlier than anticipated, I made my way towards the restrooms to give myself a once over. The ladies’ room had been locked, so I opted for the men’s after confirming that it was not in use. As I stared in the mirror, steeling my nerves for my first New York City interview, the bathroom door swung open. The approaching man noticed me, quickly miss-assumed his mistake, and turned to walk out the door.

“The ladies room was locked,” I called back to no avail.

The interview room was empty. As I sat at a large conference room table, fidgeting with my purse, a figure appeared in the doorway. I looked up and found the same face that caught me in the men’s room. “It’s you,” he said, “the one that didn’t let me use the bathroom.”

Blush crept up my neck and into my cheeks as an uncontrollable smile lit my face. “I’m sorry,” I responded. “I had tried the ladies room but the door was locked. I didn’t expect anyone to walk in.”

“No, don’t worry. I’m only teasing. I’m Jourdan.” He took my hand in his and smiled handsomely. The interview then went as expected. I was confident I would not get the position, knowing I lacked the professional experience—and my obvious trepidation could not have helped.

I spent the next few weeks sending out my resume and going on interviews, while sharing a two-bedroom apartment in Astoria with my ex, my crush, his girlfriend, and my three-year-old son. I hardly saw or spent time with Thomas, and the rare instances I did, were the only good moments I had while staying with him. I spent the rest of the time feeling like an intruder in his space. Nat’s unhappiness with the living arrangements was palpable—putting Thomas and everyone else, in an increasingly uncomfortable position. I tried in vain to be a good houseguest—nothing could counter the tension.

Voldemort and I commiserated over the awkwardness of being guests in a home where we were no longer welcome, but could not leave. We wanted the friendship and company we had anticipated being a part of, but instead were shunned. The four adults could not share the space. The living room was not ours to claim, but when we would exit the bedroom, Thomas and his girlfriend would leave the couch and hide in their own room. We followed their example; but Thomas insisted we not be like roaches scampering to hide. He fully unleashed his frustrations one night; and I was hurt as I overheard him—loudly insulting us. I agreed with Voldemort when he said that we would never see them again once we found our own place. We bonded over our mutual discomfort and the stress of finding jobs and homes, and slowly began to discuss reattempting a relationship.

Countless staffing appointments, and only a month in New York later, I had finally found a position I liked—working in the Wall Street Plaza for an architectural firm. I was essentially a glorified secretary, but the position paid well, and—due to my marketing and writing skills—promised to allow me to exercise my creative muscles on the occasional brochure and award submission.

By the end of August, my son, Voldemort, and I had moved into a newly remodeled two-bedroom apartment in a private home in Astoria. Our lives had changed, and we hoped that we could be a family again. I wanted Voldemort to be a constant in my son's life, and knew that I could learn from our relationship—patience, mainly—if I let myself be open to it. I was fine—not particularly happy, but fine.

Meanwhile, Thomas and Nat’s whirlwind romance was coming to an end; and, after a couple of silent months, he and I picked up where we left off—finding excuses to chat each day. He let me vent about what ended up being a rather dull job—where I was never challenged, and only expected to arrange daily meeting meals and itemize expense reports every few weeks—and I listened and encouraged him when he told me that he wanted to pursue voice acting for animation in California.

Voldemort, as it turned out, had not changed. He was managing restaurants again—staying out late every night, and staggering in drunk and belligerent just before I went out for my morning run at 5am. I had enrolled my son in preschool; but since it was Voldemort's responsibility to take him, he hardly ever went. His inconsistent routine and lack of discipline made his behavior intolerable. I was feeling that old familiar anger rising up within me, and unfortunately, my son was usually at the brunt of it.

I hate that I get so angry and don’t know how else to react sometimes with my son. I hate that I feel so bad. Shake it off. There’s no use carrying this around all day—it’ll sour today when it’s only just begun. I lost my temper a few too many times yesterday. He’s just a boy. I don’t know how to handle him sometimes. I don’t know how to keep my cool. Stop, count, and breathe. That’s what I have to do. “I’m sorry, son. Mommy’s sorry for being so quick to anger.” I’m done beating myself up about this. I will talk to my son when I get home, and apologize again for my bad temper. I will tell him how I’m working on curbing that anger, and will play with him until bath time and then again until bedtime. I will read him two books before bed, and sing him to sleep.

I was working towards improving myself. All of my efforts to better my relationship however, were met with the same old obstacles. There was no respect, just take and no give, no communication, no compromise, no compassion; and sex was just another burden on my long list of obligations. I would let him have me whenever I could stomach it—hoping that if I pleased him, he would work to please me by being a better partner and father.

I feel empty. I feel like I’m living a meaningless life to a point. I am a mother and that gives me purpose. But I feel like I have little else. I know that’s not exactly true. I have a job—albeit boring and unfulfilling—and I have a partner that loves and desires me—even though I can’t bring myself to feel anything when he passionately kisses me. I have a home. I love where I live, but I hate how I’m living. I don’t know how to change. My passion is gone. I feel anxious at the thought of accomplishing anything other than the day-to-day. I look forward to dulling my senses with wine, and little else. What kind of a life is that? I look forward to reading, and coming home, and seeing my little one’s face, and laughing, and seeing new parts of the city. I look forward to one day having friends, spending time with them, and having dinner parties again. I’m in a rut but I will get out. I have to maintain a clear perspective. I’m healthy, and employed, and loved. I’m young and while I don’t feel beautiful, I am. Just breathe. Just smile and try not to focus on your sad emptiness. Please.

Then one night near the end of November, I awoke at 3am to my usually empty bed. Checking my phone to see if Voldemort had messaged, I was disappointed but not surprised when I noticed that he had not. I did however, have a recent unread email from Rizi. In the dark, feeling lonely and annoyed—a vague flutter in my chest—I read his letter.

Hey Jane,

I haven't written in a long time. I haven't had the time to internalize everything that has happened between us. I finally sat down today, cleared my head, and put on Sinatra. It has been a cold and unforgiving day. I've sat at home while I’ve gotten texts from everyone I know, wishing that I could join them in their celebrations. The simple fact is, I’m alone up here. It’s never been so apparent, but something about the silence in this house is terrifying to me. This doesn't mean that I’m unhappy; I’ve simply realized how alone I really am. Terrible thought. Thirteen hours later, I'm writing this email. Anyway, I’m writing to you to fill you in on everything, I mean the entire story.

When I came down and saw you, I was still attached to Dani. You asked me multiple times why I didn’t want to be with her anymore, and I couldn't give you a solid reason. The truth is, we are genuinely different people; we want different things and I couldn't imagine spending the rest of my life with her. So I did what I thought was best; I broke up with her. We broke it off and it dragged on a bit, but it all officially ended on October 20th. We're over, and I honestly want to thank you for making me realize how unhappy I was and how much I had been missing out on. Dani and I were not good together; our differences and my inability to do anything about it, is the reason why I was driven into your arms. And such amazing arms they were. I did wrong by you—I admit it. I'm genuinely sorry. I not only lost someone who I was romantically interested in, but I lost a friend—someone who I have grown to care about for the last five years. Whether you'd like to admit it or not, you mean a lot to me and I know that you know you do.

I have changed a lot in the past few months. I've really started to focus on myself and the areas of my personality that I would like to improve. I think that over time, I’ll start to finally figure myself out and what I want. Losing you was hard. Not the sex or companionship, but the friendship that was the railroad foundation to our crazy train. I hate that it ended this way. I have to admit; I wasn't ready to see a future with you. I didn't know how I was supposed to pick up where you and Voldemort left off. I didn't know whether or not I could handle the baggage you came with, and I wasn't ready to be a part of you son's life. You did the right thing by distancing yourself from me, it was the right decision for the both of us. I was so close to your fire that I had eyes for nothing else, but I hadn't asked myself the hard questions that needed real answers. And now that I look back at it, I wasn't ready for you; I don't think I’d be ready now.

Once I lost you, I reeled backward and realized just how far your light had pulled me away from anything I have ever known. I looked around in August and realized that I was with the wrong person, for the wrong reasons. I didn't know who I was and I didn't know what I wanted—I still don't; but at least now, I know what I don't want. I don't want to lose our friendship. And I don't think I ever will; someone very wise told me that, "No cause is lost if there is but one fool left to fight for it.” Well, call me that fool. I truly want our friendship back. Nothing more. I have this theory that we are trapped in parallel universes and that those universes intersect at certain points but our romance was always a doomed one. I’m doomed to watch you from a distance, a two-way mirror, far, far away from you, yet close enough to see the intricate details of the life that you're building in New York.

I met a girl. She's a great one. She makes me happy, and she lives in Miami. I can't say I share the kind of passion for her that I did for you, but I don't believe that I have had the opportunity to confront those emotions with her the way I did with you. My feelings for you were the byproduct of longing for you for years. I suppose I won’t ever come into contact with that kind of long-lost passion again.

I decided on a job in Miami. I’m being paid to do corporate securities litigation, and it's a dream come true. With everything that's happening, I feel like I can finally afford the lifestyle that I've always dreamed of living. I was offered four positions in New York, and I almost took one just to be closer to you; but I'm tired of making the wrong decisions for the wrong reasons. Miami is where I need to be—it’s where my family is—it’s where all my friends are—it’s where my girlfriend is—it’s where my life is. Yet, I find it shocking that I was willing to overlook all of that for a chance to be closer to you at one point. Crazy.

I hope this message finds you well. I hope you're happy and that you've finally become unstuck from your sticky situation. I don't know if you'll ever read this message. I don't know if you'll ever write back. I hope you do, but if you don’t, I understand. If I don't hear from you, I wish you nothing but the best and look forward to the next time that our realities intersect. No matter what happens or where you end up, I will always be proud of the person you are because I will always care enough to find out who that person is.

-Rizi

He was happy and wanted me to be happy too—but in that moment, I was self-pity personified. A couple of days later, on November 29th—my father’s birthday—Voldemort failed to come home until nearly 8am. He had fallen asleep on someone’s couch and had left his phone in someone’s car; and I did not care anymore. I was grateful for my life, and with each gratitude expressed, I found something more to be thankful for; but Voldemort was not trying. I knew a line of mutual respect and kindness had long since been crossed in our relationship, and there was no way to uncross it. I knew I would be happier alone than faking it for the rest of my life.

...when you fall in love with a cheater - part 1

2018-03-22T08:34:00.000-07:00

Seemingly disentangled, Rizi came into town for the summer. He contacted me, and I allowed him to distract me for a few weeks.

We’re floating like a couple of drunk buoys, waves wildly willing us underwater. Noticing my struggle to evade the salty assaulting splash, you reach out to me, “Here, let me help you.” I can feel your slippery fingertips graze my bare waist and hips, and I’m instantly wet, never mind the ocean we’re in. You lift me and bring me to your buoyant body, my legs straddling your waist—ineptly ignoring the obvious bulge between us. I want to kiss you—our faces, inches apart. We look at each other—pause for effect—rolling swells striking our loose limbs. You incline your lips towards mine and I coyly pull away—tucking my chin into my chest and looking up at you in sexy defiance. You respond to the chase and quickly traverse the separating space. Our lips meet—a soft slick surge of sweetness. You slay me. There’s no better word for it; makes me think: vampire slayer—wooden stake through the heart. That’s exactly what you do to me. My breath: staccato in my throat with the onslaught of a warm stab through my chest—I’m slain. Your hands presumptuously wander from my waist, to my lower back, ass, and sex. I want you—disregarding the beach bunny grannies and beer drinking frat boys, I take my right arm from around your neck, and slide my hand to the board-short-bridge below. You stop me—grab my wrist and shake your head—you don’t want to lose control, but it’s too late for that. I wrap you in my embrace and press my lips desperately to yours—greedily grinding into you. You retaliate by hungrily tonguing my mouth—quite literally taking my breath away. Realizing that we’re easily crossing into indecent, we disentangle—resisting the magnetism—only to find ourselves reattached within seconds. My heart reverberates in my chest like an adamant alarm refusing to be silenced, while you’re pawing at my backside, as if the softness could slip from your grasp; our mouths, a mess of hot breath and thick, thirsty licks. Reminding us of our public exposure, our passionate noise is interrupted by a pair of social swimmers. We attempt to compose and collect while we wade towards the shore—flushed and frustrated.

I had thought I could ignore his past indiscretions and have a stringless fling before leaving my home state, but I wanted more. I questioned him about his girlfriend; and Rizi claimed they had separated, but admitted that she was still living in his home in Nashville. I needed him to tell me why he no longer wanted to be with her—to justify our affair; but he never could. He could not give me the validation I required; so I refused to continue giving him the attention he wanted.

One day at a time—

Merely a facade.

Promising you’re mine—

Your disguise is flawed.

Lovers on the run.

Liars loving fun.

You are not the best—

Crossing all the lines—

Living like the rest,

Ignoring the signs.

Hearts remaining blind—

Speaking from the mind.

I will just move on—

While you hold on tight.

Long after I’m gone,

You keep up the fight.

Striving for romance—

Clinging to the chance.

Thank you for the lesson,

And the path you’ve cleared.

Slip from my possession,

Just as I had feared.

Bodies always stray,

Kindness fades away.

Goodbye from a friend.

I want to let go.

Hold on till the end,

He will never know.

Hope remains awake.

Neglecting heartbreak.

We’re not keeping score.

I adore the same—

As I did before

The start of our game.

Lacking desperation—

No resuscitation.

I am stronger now

Than when we began;

And to this I vow,

I will love again.

...when it's time to make a change - part 2 (Dr. Hare's Checklist for Sociopathic Traits)

2018-03-21T10:01:00.000-07:00

In the weeks leading up to my leaving, I met and trained my replacement at work. Ariel was a nice and agreeable man—roughly my age and married with two kids. We got along well and, in between sending out quotes for life insurance policies, would talk about our lives. He told me the story of how he met and subsequently married his wife; and his story permanently altered my view on love and romance.

Ariel had married young and was living with his first wife. He was miserable. They fought too much and too dirty—name calling, bringing up irrelevant moments of the past, and always failing to reach any common ground. He was imperfect, but tried to repair the damage they had done together. She was seemingly unaware and uninterested in doing the same.

Ariel did not want to give up on his marriage. He was headstrong and determined, and wanted to find a solution. One night, after a particularly bad episode, he collapsed onto his knees and begged God to help him find something—strength, resolution, peace, a love he deserved—anything that would make things seem less bleak.

He soon found the strength to end his marriage, the resolution to move forward, and the peace within his life that he so craved. In his altered state, he went to the office in which he once worked—the broker that maintained his life insurance policy—determined to change his beneficiary. He was helped by Vicky—a former coworker with whom he did not get along. She had a strong and capable attitude; and he blamed their previously prickly interactions on the similarities in their characters—when in reality it was the fear of what those similarities meant, that kept his feelings for her not only at bay, but also appearing as if emanating from the opposite end of the spectrum. On that day however, he did not have distaste for her. He confided in her, told her discretely about the dissolution of his marriage, and was surprised to find in her response a similar confidence. She too was ending her once toxic affair with her son’s father.

What followed was a surprise to both of them. A romance quickly blossomed that was exactly what they had always hoped to find. They were kind, patient, generous, understanding, loving, considerate—and above all, ready.

After weeks of dating, Ariel shared with Vicky the story of the last fight he had with his ex-wife. Once finished, surprised by the serendipity, Vicky shared a similar story. She too had one final, tumultuous night with her ex—one that led to her pleading with God to help her find strength, resolution, peace, and love. The day of her fight, of her prayer, was the same as his.

When Ariel spoke about his wife, he spoke of a love that I did not think existed outside of movies and romance novels. I assumed love was all compromise and begging for the strength to go on, day in and day out. He painted a love that was inspiring—one that you never questioned or second guessed—one that caused you to constantly miss the one you love, and not relish those moments without them.

I suddenly had a greater desire to achieve this level of love, and was certain it would not be possible with Voldemort. Conveniently, a coworker in a similar situation as mine—with a child and a problematic ex—sent me a checklist for sociopathic traits. It was then that I realized I had created a child with a sociopath.

Dr. Hare's Sociopathic Traits Checklist

Superficial Charm: the tendency to be smooth, engaging, slick, and verbally facile.
Grandiose Self-worth: a grossly inflated view of one's abilities and self-worth.
Need for Stimulation: an excessive need for novel, thrilling, and exciting stimulation.
Pathological Lying: deceptive, deceitful, underhanded, unscrupulous, and dishonest.
Manipulativeness and Callousness: pursues desires, without concern for the suffering of one's victims.
Lack of Remorse: unconcerned, dispassionate, coldhearted, and unsympathetic.
Shallow Affect: interpersonal coldness in spite of signs of open gregariousness.
Parasitic Lifestyle: exploitative financial dependence on others; lack of motivation, low self-discipline, and an inability to begin or complete responsibilities.
Poor Behavioral Controls: constant expressions of irritability, annoyance, threats, and aggression.
Promiscuous Sexual Behavior: a history of attempts to coerce others into sexual activity.
Juvenile delinquency: early problematic behaviors—lying, theft, cheating, vandalism, and bullying.
Lack of Realistic, Long-term Goals: a nomadic existence; aimless and lacking direction.
Impulsivity: unpremeditated behaviors that lack reflection, planning, or resistance to temptations.
Irresponsibility: repeated failure to fulfill or honor obligations and commitments.
Failure to Accept Responsibility for Own Actions: low conscientiousness and denial of responsibility.
Criminal Versatility: criminal offenses, regardless of arrest or conviction.
Revocation of Condition Release: a revocation of conditional release due to technical violations, such as carelessness, low deliberation, or failing to appear.

...when it's time to make a change - part 1

2018-03-20T09:56:00.001-07:00

We flew up to New York City a week later. While there, Voldemort remembered that Thomas had moved to Manhattan a few years prior. Neither of us had really spoken to Thomas since before my son was born; but Voldemort had been calling all of the people he knew in the city—needing to constantly surround himself with friends. Thomas agreed to meet us. We saw him the day before the wedding—decorated the reception hall together—and after the wedding—meeting at a bar in midtown. I told him how much I had always wanted to live in New York and write for a living; and he encouraged me to do it. He was working for The New York Times, and said that although he could not guarantee a job, he would try to get me an interview. Thomas offered to let Voldemort, our son, and I stay with him until we got settled.

Tequila drunk, surrounded by friends, and feeling happy while talking to Thomas—I was overcome by that sudden and unmistakable urge to kiss him. I planted my lips on his; and he seemed receptive, but assumed it was merely a byproduct of the alcohol, and left with another bridesmaid at the end of the night. I felt stupidly rejected by him again, but it did not matter. The change I needed was in the works.

Voldemort and I flew home and began to make arrangements. The plan was for Voldemort to fly up at the end of May, after my son's birthday, at which point he and I would move in with my parents for two months to save money—leaving Miami at the end of July—while Voldemort looked for work, saved money, and found an apartment in New York.

In my closet, as I packed my clothes, I told Voldemort that I wanted us both to be single while we were apart; and for him to work towards bettering himself in a new environment. I assumed that if he were able to quit smoking weed, he would also be able to focus on taking care of himself and ultimately his family. I wanted to incentivize him with the promise that we would reunite once he fulfilled his obligation to change. He did not agree that we should breakup, and tried to convince me to reconsider. I would not be swayed; so he charged at me, tackled me to the ground, wrapped his hands around my neck, and choked me; as I screamed that I was going to call the police. He left me there, in my closet—scared and angry—and spent the night at a friend’s house. The next day, I moved in with my parents, and he flew up to New York.

During that summer, Thomas and I spoke often. Much like the relationship we shared in 2005, I confided in him, and he somehow always knew the right thing to say. He kept an eye on Voldemort for me, and promised that things would improve once I moved; but I was no longer concerned with Voldemort. In fact, Voldemort was the first person to notice how similar Thomas and I were. He was worried that we would hit it off too well; and I hoped that he was right.

A few weeks after Voldemort arrived however, Chris visited him in the city, and brought along his friend Nat. She and Thomas fell instantly for one another—both lonely and eager—and he presented her with the same offer he had given me. She was to move in a few days after my son and I.

Discouraged, I focused on the positive. Voldemort had found a job working for a party planning company. He was making decent money, and seemed determined to improve his life; but as usual, it did not last. He admitted to buying and selling pot to his coworkers, assuming that since he was earning back the money he was using for the purchase, I would not see it for what it was; but he was dealing again, and at his new job no less. Voldemort could not see how he was risking everything, but I could. I was furious, and began to lose hope. I wanted to move forward without him, but continued to believe he could be better than he was.

There's a recurring problem in my life. I have trouble making decisions about my direction. There’s always a fork with what seems to be a clear path in front of me, that I myself make difficult to follow; because I expect it to be paved—when in fact it’s riddled with potholes. I could step around the potholes, or even attempt to fill them in, but instead I focus on them. Then, as if in an attempt to change my focus, I allow myself to get distracted and subsequently fall into them; but there’s an almost insignificant feeling that’s telling me that at the end of this imperfect path, there is a golden escalator that will take me exactly to where I want to go. Then there’s the alternate path on the fork. The road is paved and at an incline—slowly rising up, making it easier for myself to go on up with it. There might be a weed or two along the side, but other than that it’s quite perfect. It is however, unknown to me. I’m not sure if it will continue to rise up and take me to where I ultimately need to be, or if it will veer me away from my fate—leaving me lost and alone. Both paths are accessible; one may be more accessible than the other, but both are a gamble. I wish I could toss a coin that would help me to determine my destiny. This has always been where I get stuck; so instead of making a decision, I wait—straddling both sides of the fork as much as I can—until a gust of wind pushes me in one direction or another.

...when you have a baby with a sociopath - part 2

2018-03-16T10:01:00.000-07:00

Having learned of Voldemort's affair, I felt justified in seeking attention elsewhere. I turned to Ross—the only guy other than Voldemort, and the only person from the group that I still saw regularly. I seduced him, and soon developed feelings.

He sat down next to me, and I practically melted into the couch. I could scarcely breathe let alone move, but somehow managed to let my hand inch closer to his. If I looked at him, I’d give it away—he’d read it all over my face. So instead I looked straight ahead, knowing I couldn’t possibly pay attention to anything that was happening in front of me. From what I could see, using only peripherals, it seemed as if his hand was getting closer; but he moved it in such a way that made me think it was all in my head. He’s not moving his hand closer to mine, I’m moving mine closer to his, and the second I get too close, he’ll pull away. I knew this but still could not stop my hand. My fingers slowly extended from under my palm, bridging the gap between us. He didn’t pull away. I didn’t want to move, or even breathe too noisily—fearing he’d startle like a deer in a clearing. After what felt like a lifetime, I allowed myself to exhale and take one shallow breath; but I still couldn’t move, and I didn’t—not until I realized that his fingers were gently caressing mine, so softly I doubted it was even happening. My heart beat so loudly that I was certain it had leapt to my head; I feared my boyfriend could hear it from the kitchen—and moved my hand away, in an attempt to avoid detection, hoping the beats would silence; but the drumming rhythm in my head only got louder as I forced my hand away. Even if I had wanted to stay away, it wouldn’t make any difference—my hand was acting independently and would happily defy me. It quickly went back to the space between us and met his once again.

We had a brief romance, and while I relished the distraction, it was never enough. Once the flirtation dissipated, so did our friendship.

I’m so desperate to feel something—other than frustration, hatred, and this desperation—that I’d create an imaginary romance with myself and someone who... I don’t even know. Part of me wants to say that he was into it and into me; I mean, who wouldn’t be? I’m too drunk to write this. What I really want is to write to him—but I don’t know what to say. I feel like I shouldn’t say anything. “I watched him walk away with sickness in my heart—though it was a pleasing kind of sickness, if such a thing exists.” I knew this wasn’t going anywhere either way, so it’s all irrelevant—and it definitely won’t go anywhere anymore; but it’s as if I needed it. I needed the flirtations and the come-ons, because without it, all I have are fights—the majority of which are had in front of my son—and loveless sex. I didn’t want to be with him really. I just wanted something else. “[But] dreams can be such dangerous things: they smolder on like a fire does, and sometimes consume us completely.” My options are few and right now the most desirable one seems to be the one that leaves my son without a mother, and that’s not something I ever want to do. But desperation makes me weak and it’s easy to quit—so it’s as if I needed this little bit of harmless fun to get me through this montage-less rough time in my life. I guess I’m just desperate for change. I’m scared of what these feelings mean. I’m scared of not acting on them.

All the while, having been promoted twice at the insurance agency, I had reached the highest role I could within the company—as the head of marketing and life insurance illustrations and quotations. Having nowhere else to go from there, I began looking for writing gigs on Craigslist. After responding to numerous inquiries however, it seemed no one was interested in hiring me, and my restlessness worsened.

Inspired by compliments from coworkers, I decided to start a fashion blog. We never had much money; but I always had my own style, and enjoyed creating unique outfits from the few inexpensive pieces that I owned. Hoping to get a good shot, I used my lunch breaks to trek up to the top of a parking garage. I attached a cheap digital camera to a small tripod, taught myself photo-editing software, and designed a BlogSpot layout—emulating the sites I admired. I kept it up for almost a year—expecting it might someday be profitable; but eventually let my destructive relationship get in the way of my ambition, and looked inward for my next move.

What sets me apart isn’t my beauty, strength, or intelligence—it’s not my generosity, empathy, or punctuality. I’m loving, selfless, and determined, but that doesn’t make me unique. My intuition, great sense of humor, and amazing organizational skills don’t make me stand out—neither does my stubbornness, sensitivities, nor frugality. It’s not my introversion that makes me interesting. What sets me apart is my ability to look within myself and discover strengths and weaknesses, habitually—in such a way that I am constantly evolving—getting emotionally, physically, and mentally stronger. I know most every facet of myself; and those I do not know, I’m eager to uncover.

I began running. Having long since gotten over the worst of my eating disorder, I still limited my food intake, and tried to keep my weight at around 105 lbs.—the running facilitated this. I told everyone I was training for a marathon. In reality, I was just trying to stave off the insanity. It was my meditation. I could escape my life for as long as I could run. I ran for hours every day.

I’m running out of track. I don’t know where I’m going and I’m not good at dealing with things as they go. I wish I could just be happy and live my life, like everyone else. Why is it all so difficult? I feel like happiness comes in short snippets; and more often than not, it’s just a memory of an experienced happiness. You remember falling in love with your significant other, so you’re happy to be with them—but why must I tear it apart? Why can’t I see the forest through the trees? That’s my main problem, I think. I can stop and appreciate my life when it’s all said and done—but while I’m living it, I’m miserably picking apart its flaws, and allowing good times to go unpracticed. Can’t be any good if you don’t practice, right? We all know I can never do anything that I’m not good at—that’s my problem; but then again, the act of picking at a problem, of tearing myself apart and finding the flaws, is the problem. I don’t know what I really want out of life. I see the lives of others and want to imitate them. I want to be like the photographers and bloggers and interior designers and friends and girls that fill up my Facebook feed with proof of their seemingly meaningful lives. Maybe I just don’t post enough. I feel like I should be taking advantage of this age, but in reality every age should be taken advantage of. If I spend too much time thinking of my twenties, I’ll be thirty something and living in the past. I need to snap out of it—but how?

I was hoping to feel less trapped and unhappy, when Rizi reached out to me. Offering an attentive ear, he welcomed my lonely stories with compassion. I told him everything—yet he failed to tell me about his girlfriend. I worried myself with the paranoid idea that he was judging me as harshly as I judged myself, and let him occupy my vacant fantasies. Motivated by his genuinely good counsel, I began to lay the groundwork for several improvements—deciding I would no longer compromise my feelings.

While high on self-empowerment, I found the courage to let Rizi know how I had once felt and was feeling again about him. He responded positively—telling me that he too had felt and was feeling something for me; and I kicked my lazy, addicted, and abusive boyfriend out of the apartment we shared.

In the beginning, Rizi asked many questions and was able to keep me talking all day—but then he began to tell me things that would make even the most jaded person swoon, leaving me speechless.

He had moved to Nashville the year prior to attend law school. We had not seen each other in years, but planned to meet during his next break from school. When he came into town however, he suddenly had no time to see me. The guy that would text me every few minutes to ask what was on my mind, and gave me a hard time if I took longer than twenty minutes to respond, was suddenly so busy he could barely answer his phone. It was a blazing red flag, and I was refusing to ignore my instincts. I told him I felt neglected, blew off his excuses, and let him leave without seeing me.

Mild heartbreak propelled me back into Voldemort's arms; but when the typical variables presented themselves—excessive fighting, lying, and crying—Rizi rolled in with the tide and dragged me out into his ocean; but the red flag remained. I confronted him and he confessed to being like me, unhappy and stuck. It explained everything. I cared for him, and pretended to tolerate his having a girlfriend, even after she had relocated to be with him. He wanted to end it, he would tell me, but it was incredibly difficult, with her having uprooted her life for him. My desires were loud enough to silence the warnings. I was certain we were in love.

I think of you every minute now—seconds pass where perhaps my thoughts will be quite of your memory, but only seconds.

Still, I could not find the strength to force Voldemort out again. My wish to keep our family together was stronger than the knowledge that it might never work. He was my son’s father and I was still hoping he could improve.

I haven’t written much lately. I’ll write today about the things I know—isn’t that what they say? Well, I know that I have a son that I love very much. I know that he is beautiful, precocious, and energetic. I know that as I sit here writing, I am glancing at my phone, which stands up next to my keyboard, and I am hoping to see that bright glimmer of a green light that alerts me to a message received. I know that I am training my body to be able to run a half marathon and more. I have achieved nearly 8 miles non-stop, and I know I can achieve more. I know that although I am strong, making the fear in me equally strong, I can still move forward because fear alone cannot stop me—only I can stop myself. I don’t know that I can leave him, as incapable as he seems, but I know I will if my heart demands it. If I evolve, so will those around me; well what if those around me are continuously working against me? Or what if I stopped blaming others for my shortcomings, simply accepted the blame as my own, and tried to prevent the failed history from repeating itself? How can I fight against him? My heart doesn’t even want to belong to him. That which attracted me seems false and simply a matter of the right perspective at the right time. Now that I see most if not all facets of him, I can see that it was just a trick of mirrors and light, and not really a vision of the one that I saw.

I was torn between the dishonest, abusive, irresponsible father of my child—and the guy who was unavailable.

Everything he says sounds as if he’s merely saying what he thinks I want to hear. “Oh by the way, I broke up with my girlfriend [because you said I was too predictable and I know that you didn’t predict this]—but of course now you don’t want to be with me.” What are you talking about? You’re still with her. Did you just say that so that I would be fooled into thinking I was wrong about you? It didn’t work, since I expected that statement to get a reaction from you. Predictable to the very end. That’s what you like about me—I’m not.

But why has he been around this whole time? Was it something that was meant to be, or something that I forced into existence just by wanting it, like I do everything else? Because let me tell you, I wanted it. I thought about it and cried about it and prayed for it—because it was prophesied—because it was meant to be mine; but I have to be patient and become worthy enough for it. Is that the case? How do I know? How do I know I’m not making a mistake every step of the way? What does it matter? I feel like in reality, he doesn’t differentiate me from all of the other girls he likes or flirts with. That’s the truth.

After months of torture—and realizing I had let myself become the other woman—I decided to end things with Rizi, and keep things open with Voldemort, while we both attempted to better ourselves.

All the while, Carmen and Adam had planned the wedding that Voldemort and I did not. She asked me to be her matron of honor; and after getting their wedding invite, we planned a trip to New York City for April 2013. We had not been back since 2005 and it felt like fate.

Prior to going to New York, I received an invitation for my ex's movie premier. He had moved to L.A. to become an actor, and had written, produced, and starred in a film that was premiering at the West Palm Beach Film Festival. He asked me to come, and to bring Voldemort.

On April 5th 2013, we drove up for the premier. The movie was powerful, to say the least; and I was impressed, but had always known that my ex would make something great of himself. The after party was the most fun Voldemort and I had in a long time. We socialized and drank a bit; but I limited myself, knowing we would have a long drive back. Voldemort had intended to take it easy too, but instead spent the night finishing off people’s drinks—so when it was time to go home, he was far more intoxicated than I realized.

It was around 2am when we finally left the party; and since I was usually in bed by 10pm, I asked Voldemort if he would not mind driving while I slept. He said he did not; and I assumed it would be fine. After an hour, Voldemort aggressively ripped me from sleep. He was belligerent and had apparently gotten lost on the turnpike—somehow going north instead of south. I was confused and could not understand what he was saying; but he would not stop yelling. I exploded—screaming at him to pull over—and in an attempt to silence him, beat his face and head, as he shielded himself with his arms. I suddenly realized how far gone he really was, and forced him out of the driver’s seat; but it was late and I was still very tired. Once the adrenaline subsided, I briefly closed my eyes, and drove into the car in front of us. Startled awake, I swerved into the guardrail. The car spun uncontrollably; but I managed to right myself, and speed the rest of the way home.

Arriving at our apartment, I decided that if we did not change something soon, we would kill each other. The next day, I made Voldemort get rid of his gun—just in case.

...when you have a baby with a sociopath - part 1

2018-03-15T09:57:00.000-07:00

The first few months of my son's life were idyllic. I took walks with him every day, talking to him about everything from the scenery to my feelings; and read to him every night—a habit that continues to this day. Voldemort instantly fell in love with our son. Having been abandoned by his own father, he was motivated to do better by our son. Luckily, he had been fired from his previous job—leaving behind the negative influences. He signed on as head manager and marketing director of a new club-style restaurant in Coconut Grove. He was earning a higher salary, and was no longer working late nights. I felt as if I had finally achieved my dream. I was raising a child, maintaining a home, satisfying and serving my pseudo husband, and spending time with our friends whenever possible.

The happiness was short lived. Voldemort was never satisfied. We would argue because sex every day was not enough, or because we never had any money; and all of my attempts to appease went unappreciated. I began to get hives whenever he would touch me; but somehow failed to notice my acute stress disorder, which soon morphed into post-traumatic stress disorder. He started going out all of the time again; and I realized I had not known trapped until I was stuck in our apartment with an infant, no phone, and no car; but Voldemort needed me. Whenever I would reach my pinnacle, he would have a moment of clarity—telling me all of the things that I wanted to hear. I was right. He needed help and would be better; but would never get help and would never get better. So following a full year of breastfeeding, I started drinking.

I’m the girl that develops an eating disorder, OCD, and an incredibly addictive and destructive personality, and somehow always manages to come through unscathed; but for whatever reason, I can’t seem to shake these feelings of helplessness and hopelessness. I’m desperate for control and tired of holding the wheel all at the same time. This inner monologue is ridiculous—it keeps telling me that I’m not having a back and forth with myself and myself about myself; but it sure feels like I am. Time to get more drunk.

Throughout all of this, I relied heavily on my abilities as a mother. I was on all of the parenting forums, making sure I was doing everything the best possible way. I felt I had no other reason to live.

It’s feels as if I’m not really addicted. It’s like I didn’t smoke a pack a day or take 20 laxatives a day for over a year. We cannot afford for me to lose it. We can’t afford another addiction—another disorder that I suddenly wake up with one day. It’s like I’m stuck. I’m stuck in this mentality but it’s not really trapping me—I can get out whenever, but it’s as if I don’t want to. I don’t want to be brave and optimistic anymore. I’m tired; but I’m also not fooled. I know I’m faking it, which makes it worse. Nothing is wrong. I have my health, my family, and my friends; but it’s as if none of that matters because I still can’t get it together. If we fall apart because of this, I’ll never forgive myself. I can’t say this to him; it’s not fair. I can’t just lay my insanity on him and expect him to deal with it. What’s sadder is nothing is really wrong. I’m faking it and things are not that bad; but I still want to give up—cry for help, maybe; but help from or with what? I don't know. I don’t want to be this person, but I’m tired of trying to be anything else. We’ll be fine, like we always are; and I’m just faking it, like I always am—but I still can’t seem to shake this feeling.

The following year, Voldemort filed our taxes and we received a $10,000 tax return. We took our son to Disney World with our friends, bought new bikes, a bike trailer for the baby, all sorts of electronics, loads of booze and weed, and a handgun—which I had always detested. Soon, the money ran out, but I was too numb to notice.

Shortly after Thanksgiving, Voldemort asked me to marry him; but it was not the romantic proposal I had wanted. He purchased a synthetic diamond ring—using an Amazon credit card he never paid off—and after finding it in a drawer under our bathroom sink, I forced him to give it to me. Officially engaged, we set our wedding for the following 11th of March; and I hoped that he would somehow morph into the man of my dreams.

The outcome of this recipe, although delicious, will not be edible. We’ll start with a nice, clean and honest base; we’ll add to that a mixture of passion and compassion with a sprinkling of culture for flavor. Be sure to include goals and aspirations as well as a healthy dose of dedication. Now we fold in some faithfulness and gratefulness and a good sense of humor for good measure. This recipe will be high in IQ, so feel free to add heaps of common sense and logic. Once that’s done, get your hands in there and sort the dough into an organized and neat shape that is fit and can easily adapt to change—with a soft and empathetic center. For a final touch, we’ll dip it in charm and charisma, and call it The One. This particular meal cooks not with heat, but with time and experience. It ages and matures patiently until it becomes the perfect dish. Once done, it will have eyes that will entrance and a voice that easily enchants with merely whispered words. It will have skin that begs to be touched, and a smile that weakens even the strongest of knees – and it will know how to love and be loved without condition. Serves one lonely heart—enjoy.

Regardless of our new title, the fights continued, at times getting physical. Voldemort had lost his job, due to the restaurant going bankrupt; and I decided it was time that I stopped depending on him. Ellen was leaving a receptionist position at a health and life insurance agency—she recommended me as her replacement—and they hired me instantly. I regained my independence, while Voldemort stayed home with our son.

Things were going fairly well, and in an attempt to reconnect, we decided to recreate the bonding trips we had while on MDMA. We sent the baby to my mother’s for the night, and invited a few friends over to partake. The drugs led to some nakedness and group kissing, which we had mistaken for a deeper connection—when all it had really done was open the door for Voldemort and Gail to mess around in secret.

In December 2011, Chris and Gail got married. Carmen, having moved to New York City years early, flew in for the wedding with her new boyfriend, Adam. The whole group was back together, and for a night, everything seemed eerily perfect.

Then a few months later, I discovered Voldemort and Gail's relationship; and Chris found that his wife’s infidelity included another one of his friends. I cut ties with Gail, forcing Voldemort to do the same; and Chris filed for divorce—forgiving Voldemort for his role. The group fell apart, as did whatever trust there had been between Voldemort and me—realizing we would most likely never get married.

...when you repeat the same mistakes.

2018-03-14T10:00:00.000-07:00

I began visiting Voldemort at his friend’s house; he was staying on the couch after his mother had kicked him out. Sitting on a balcony, we would share cigarettes and talk about life. Things felt easy again. We were friends—best friends—and I was happy; but like my relationship with Alex, I spiraled downward and left myself vulnerable to Voldemort's affection. The friendship turned sexual after my 23rd birthday.

At that point, I had offered to let Voldemort stay with me. He still had yet to get his G.E.D., and was unemployed—other than dealing copious amounts of pot and pills—but I still wanted to fix him. I pushed him to earn his G.E.D. and get a job. He applied for half a dozen entry-level positions, until finally finding work as the overnight, drive-through operator at McDonald’s.

Things were going fairly well. We had a tight group of friends, which were far less poisonous than the previous group we shared. Gail and Chris, Gail's sister Ellen, Carmen, and Ross became our family; and in January 2009, we came out to everyone as a couple. I remember feeling excited for a new beginning with Voldemort, but apprehensive—knowing that when a relationship ended, it was usually best to let it.

Enchanted—why is it that you have some part of me enchanted? There’s nothing about you that I like enough to base a relationship—nothing that dictates my having to have you for anything other than the obvious. So why is it that there’s a little part of me which feels as if I have to have you—as if I want you to like me more than you say you do?

We had our friends over nearly every night, and were attending parties together every weekend; but things eventually turned angry again. I never liked to yell or offend people outright, but Voldemort was not as sensitive or tactful. He would raise his voice and call me names when we would argue; and after a while, I stopped resisting the fight.

I had also stopped resisting Voldemort when he wanted to have sex and I did not. I was lonely and desperate, so when he asked and I said no, I would let him manipulate me. “I'm not in the mood,” is something I often said, but he always knew how to counter.

“Let's just take a shower then,” or, “alright I'll just rub your back;” and before I knew it, we would be having sex and I would be feeling used—ignorant to the coercive rape. However, once was never enough. Not only would he finish right away and demand to go again in order to achieve satisfaction, but I was also waking up to him inside of me on more than one occasion.

It’s quiet. Half past three in the morning and all that’s heard is the chirping bird outside of my window, and the reflexive faking of a moan. “How did I get here?” I ask myself, as I feel him inside of me. “I know I was just sleeping, so how is it that now we’re having sex?” It wasn’t the first time I asked myself that question, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Our fights became increasingly aggressive. Voldemort would constantly yell at me to shut up, in the same way I heard him yell at his soft-spoken mother. I hated it. I hated him. Our resentment towards each other crowded the tiny apartment we shared, and we ultimately called it quits, losing our group of friends in the process—having gotten tired of our fights, they refused to pick sides—but we continued living together. He was more than my once boyfriend. We were intertwined in a co-dependent way, and I cared for him. He reminded me of my father.

With Voldemort, I had experimented with MDMA. We bonded during these trips, having sex maybe once or twice more; and at some point, I thought I had gotten pregnant. We never used protection and I was not on birth control. Like Alex before him, he would pull out and it was fine; but my period was late. Truth was, since I had always wanted to be a mother, the possibility excited me. The pregnancy test was negative; and the devastation we both experienced felt like a sign. I needed purpose and he needed a reason to keep me around, so on September 4th 2009, we tried to get pregnant. Two weeks later, the test was positive. I was 24.

Around that time, we received notice that Voldemort had failed to attend a hearing regarding a marijuana possession charge that he had incurred years earlier. Apparently, he had been riding in a car with friends which was pulled over. The police officer soon found weed and paraphernalia in the vehicle, and charged all of the passengers with possession. Because he had failed to attend the hearing, there was a warrant out for Voldemort's arrest. His public defender helped him avoid the 48 hours of drug addiction classes; but he still had to serve 6-12 hours in jail. Voldemort was scared; and I wanted to be there for him. I drove him to Key West to serve his sentence, and sat in my car the entire day while waiting for him to get out.

A few weeks into my pregnancy, we moved into a two-bedroom apartment; and I started to experience what I would consider all day sickness. I never threw up, but was always nauseous and disgusted by all of the foods I used to love. Along with this sickness, I also had persistent, depressive mood swings. The mood swings paired with the nausea made going to class and work every day unbearable. I soon left school while continuing to work at For Eyes until about a month or two before my due date. I put all of the earning responsibility on Voldemort for once, and just tried to stay sane. Depending on him made me love him again, and our on-off drama was back on.

I considered it my duty to make sure Voldemort was pleased. I forced myself to have sex with him every day, sometimes twice a day, regardless of desire. I worried that if I faltered, he would lose momentum and fall back into bad habits. He had graduated from fast food to management, running a Sugar Heaven candy store. I survived off of mostly candy for many weeks—gaining a total of 60 lbs. during my pregnancy—and barely ever left the house. Voldemort, however, was out almost every night. His extreme extroversion was the mirror opposite of my introversion. He made friends everywhere he went; and I wanted nothing to do with anyone.

After a few weeks, Voldemort lost his job at Sugar Heaven, but had no trouble finding another position as the night manager of a tropical restaurant in downtown Miami. Working in that environment exposed him to miscreants and hard drug addicts—and those were just his subordinates. He failed to come home on more than one occasion—adopting a cocaine habit—leaving a trail of evidence in the form of baggies, inappropriate texts, and even women’s clothing in the trunk of my car.

We fought constantly, but he denied everything. There was always a perfectly reasonable explanation. I was the one that was being irrational—hormonal. I felt defeated and sorry for myself, but more so for my unborn child; and spent a good chunk of my time crying and singing to my growing belly. I sought solace in our once friends, reconnecting with Chris and Gail, and soon rejoining our little group.

Chris was there for me when Voldemort refused to build the baby’s crib. He helped me put together the nursery and served as godfather when the baby was born. Gail, being Chris’ fiancé, was godmother, and my new best friend. Things were far from perfect, but I was no longer alone.

On Wednesday, May 26 2010, in the wake of waiting room drama between my family and Voldemort's, my son was born. He was perfect. My father left the hospital without seeing him, but I did not care. I had created a beautiful little boy—one that I could raise to be honest, trustworthy, and kind.

This is a spell for true love,

A promise I ask from just one.

I beg that he appear to me—

Just for a moment for me to believe.

I want us to come together—

And to love each other forever.

So tomorrow, I hope to see with my heart,

The one that will never tear it apart.

His name will sound like romance,

And his voice will sway like a dance—

And remind me of a beautiful song,

Known to me all along.

...when you're young and in love.

2018-03-13T12:00:00.000-07:00

Alex was a handsome 26-year-old Cuban immigrant. He worked for Bacardi as an events coordinator and bartender, and was especially charming; but more than that, he was responsible, kind, honest, and seemed the complete opposite of Voldemort. My parents met and loved him, just as I did. I had also quit working for Expedia, finding a position with my father as an admin at the refrigeration company where he was supervisor.

Every once in a while, I get lost in the blues and the greens in his eyes. I get lost in the love and sincerity in his voice. Every once in a while, I drown in the warmth of his skin and the creases of his arms. I get lost in the person that he sees in me, when I'm lost in him.

A few months into my new relationship with Alex, he presented me with the opportunity to get out of my parents’ house. He was buying a condo, moving out on his own, and asked me to move in with him. I agreed.

It’s not a very big space but the rooms are barren, making it seem larger than it really is. There is a soft light and a sweet breeze coming in through the open windows. I take a sip of my red wine and continue to analyze my surroundings. The light from the outside dims and the radio continues to play as the sound is absorbed onto the white walls—all white except for one, which is covered in smoothed yet jagged rocks, in no particular pattern—like the pile of garbage sitting by the door, with every intention of leaving, but nowhere to go. There is a bed with no frame in the middle of the living room, a TV with an unsteady table as a stand, and some colorless pictures on the floor—leaning up against the wall. There is one lamp hanging from the ceiling, with a stained glass look, and a brass chain wrapped around the cord. The tile is dark on the floor, painted with browns and greys, making the room look dark and depressed—lonely. The balcony has a layer of dust and dirt glazing the tile, with a small pile of leaves sitting in the center, attempting to look organized. I light a cigarette and make the shy smoke dance with the wine—slightly hypnotized by the lyrics “Brighter than sunshine,” in my little dark space—our space.

During this time, along with finally enjoying sex again, I began to feel comfortable with the idea of getting high. Alex liked to drink socially, and he smoked cigarettes along with the occasional joint. I was developing a pack-a-day habit, on top of my taste for wine, and felt ready to give weed a try. Alex did not have a dealer—due to his irregular usage—and the little bit of bud he had stashed away was running low; but I immediately knew who could help us find more. That was when Voldemort and I rekindled our friendship.

After over a year with Alex, on July of 2006, my parents invited him to join our family in Las Vegas for their 25th wedding anniversary and vow renewal—which took place on the 20th. During the trip, my parents had a caricature of themselves drawn that still hangs in their living room today. I thought it seemed like a cute idea and asked Alex if he wanted to have one done of us. He did not. Alex claimed it was a waste of money and while disappointed, I agreed. My father, noticing my disappointment, offered to pay for us; but Alex was proud and refused to take my father's money. That was the tipping point.

That night, my father asked Alex into their hotel room where he berated him, loudly enough for the whole floor to hear—calling him controlling, selfish, and manipulative. A resolution never came, and Alex left their room feeling embarrassed and foolish. He said he never wanted to be put in that position again; and having been at the receiving end of my father’s anger my whole life, I understood. We returned home, and my family and I did not see much of each other after that.

It came out of nowhere, like a storm on a clear day, and took me away. Now I'm lost, somewhere I've never been—and there’s a struggle to try to rescue me from this place—from this place that has become my home—this place that I don't belong in, but don't seem to want to leave. I sink deeper into the storm, and shy away from my rescuers. I hope to be lost forever.

At first, I made a point to attend all of Alex’s large and tight knit family’s gatherings. They managed to find reasons to have parties nearly every weekend; and being from a small and antisocial family, I was excited to be a part of it. After a while however, my introversion got the best of me and I stopped going. That paired with Alex’s irregular work schedule—mostly late nights—left me feeling not only lonely, but also trapped in our one-bedroom apartment.

Things have been going badly for a while, like the bananas bruising on my kitchen counter; but I figured I’d eat them eventually. Sometimes they’re sweeter when they’re not perfect; but things weren’t getting any sweeter. There were more black spots between the norm. “It’s nothing,” I tell myself. “You’re just being silly,” I say, as the memories continue to bruise. Eventually, I would have to throw them out, but for now, the bananas fill the empty basket next to the toaster; and some rotting bananas look better than leaving it empty. “Empty, silly girl. It might as well be empty. The bananas would never be eaten anyway.”

Alex was nothing like Voldemort or my father; he was everything I thought I wanted. Still, what I longed for most, he could not give me. I had yet to return to school, unsure of what career I would pursue, but motherhood was a certainty to me. I had wanted to be a mother for as long as I could remember; but Alex was not ready to take that step with me. In fact, he did not believe in marriage and was unsure if he would ever want children. He married a woman he had met once in Mexico—in order to escape his communist home—and did not feel the urgency to make that commitment to me; so we remained roommates with benefits.

I found other ways to gain control over my life. After Alex had made a misguided comment about my weight, I began an eating disorder, which included constant exercise, little to no food, and an excess of 20 laxatives a day. At my lowest point, I got down to 98 lbs. on my 5’4” frame, and felt better than ever—but was slowly dying.

She’s tragically beautiful and she knows it—he’s just tragic but she loves him anyway. She sold herself short and he never told her otherwise, but then again she never asked. She never knew she was supposed to—as if men just recited sonnets to the women they loved on a daily basis. So she left and he never knew why. Or she thought about it, but was always too weak and too comfortable.

Furnishing the entire apartment to his liking, I had purchased most of the big-ticket items at West Elm—thanks to my overpaid admin position; but the money was running out. The refrigeration company was going under and I had not received a paycheck in months. No longer able to pay for my half of the mortgage, I made sure to take care of everything else. The apartment was always impeccable, and Alex always had lunch to take to work and dinner when he got home.

Nevertheless, the tension grew thick in our small condo. Alex had left his position at Bacardi for a job as a FedEx driver. He had hoped to save enough money to buy his own truck and route—a future he expected to be lucrative. I had my doubts, but decided I would go back to work with my mother at For Eyes. I accepted a position as optometric technician, and while I was not receiving as much as with my previous job, I was able to start paying for my share of the expenses again. I had also enrolled back in school, knowing I could not depend on Alex and work at For Eyes forever.

The space between Alex and I is filled with silence—not anger—not sadness—just silence. Sometimes I wonder if anything else would be better. The silence is deafening. I wonder if he can hear it. I doubt he’s happy. How could he be? I mean maybe he’s not unhappy, just bored. Bored is not the right word but it’s the only word that fits the silence. I might be saying too much. I’m not exactly comfortable in the silence but perhaps he is. And maybe it’s enough for just one of us to be. It’s normal. But I’m getting tired of the quiet. I crave noise.

On the first day of my History of Life Lab, I was befriended by Rizi and forced into his clique. He was a freshman while I was a returning junior; but he dragged me along, instant friend-on-the-first-day-of-kindergarten-style, and I followed willingly. I had lunch with him and his friends a few times that semester. Immediately accommodating, the group shared inside jokes and anecdotes. I laughed along and offered tidbits of my own personal life, staying mostly tucked behind my false social exterior.

Making my own friends for the first time in years, gave me the confidence to confide in Rizi; but it was not until I asked him to meet me at an off campus bookstore, and cried on his shoulder while venting about my rapidly deteriorating relationship, that I was able to see him as an equal. I felt connected to him, but all of my subtle cues and signals fell short. When he had invited me to have dinner and see a movie, what I had hoped was a date, was in fact a group outing. Instead of friendly flirtation and intimate conversation, I had irrational jealousy over his playful interactions with his other female friends. Once the semester was over, Rizi and I lost touch, and the group continued without me.

They say unrequited love is the worst kind, but in actuality, I think it's the second worst. You see, the worst kind of love is in fact unattainable love. Unrequited love is when you love someone but they do not love you in return. Now I know it sounds bad, but at least you have the comfort of knowing that there is nothing at all that could be done to make this person love you. However, unattainable love is a love in which whether or not it is mutual is not at all relevant. It might be mutual, but it is out of one’s reach for one reason or another; and those reasons are not usually very significant—distance, timing, or maybe the love of another—but are difficult for one to change; especially when you’re taking a chance on someone that may or very well may not feel the same way. In the grand scheme of things, I would much rather be in love with someone who could never love me, than someone who loves me but stands far behind life’s hurdles—making it seem impossible to ever really seek out the affection my heart demands.

Eventually, after suffering through the sexlessness and silence of my dying relationship, my newfound self-esteem led to a mistaken attempt at rekindling a romance with the ex before Voldemort. Not only did it not lead to anything, it enabled me to get over him finally, and made it painfully obvious that I could no longer pretend things with Alex would improve.

Three years in, the relationship had decidedly run its course, and I needed to move out. We had an amicable break; and I recruited Voldemort to help me with the transition—but refused to return to my parents’ house, instead using my mother’s credit to lease a studio loft in South Miami.

...when you fall in love with a sociopath.

2018-03-09T22:03:00.000-08:00

A couple of posts back, I touched upon a relationship I was in which turned abusive. I couldn't really dive into that story then because it was actually the anniversary of the day we met. I had started writing this story a couple of years ago, but haven't been able to share it with anyone outside of my circle until now. There are journal entries which were written during the time I'm describing, that are sprinkled throughout.

We met in March 2004. I was still pining over an ex, and was visiting a friend—begging him to set me up with someone. His friends showed up shortly thereafter, and the one which had been called to meet me, only managed a nod and smile as he walked past me at the top of the stairs. Slightly disappointed by the cold shoulder, I noticed—let's call him: Voldemort. He had stopped at the bottom of the stairs and was looking up at me. His face had changed from laughing with his friends to crooked-smiling his way into my heart. He was charming, but not particularly attractive—overweight, sloppy oversize orange shirt and baggy jeans, bedraggled curly hair in desperate need for a cut, and bare feet—but when he spoke, he seemed intelligent, eloquent, and funny. I agreed to take a walk with him around the block.

As we walked and talked, his feet black from the road, I learned that he was 17 and had already graduated high school. Instantly taken aback, I assumed him to be exceedingly smart and hardworking. In reality, he had dropped out of school after several behavioral issues, and his mother was too busy throwing out his rock music CDs and science fiction novels, to enforce or regulate his homeschooling.

Up until this point, I felt as if my life was heading in a different direction. I was in college and had started working a couple of days a week at Abercrombie and Fitch—my first job after five years at the optical my mother managed. I had a great employee discount and—with the financial aid I was getting from school—was able to revamp my wardrobe after years of awkward early 2000s rocker attire. At the time, I was also straight-edge. Never having drank alcohol and completely against drugs and cigarettes, I had yet to develop any of the bad habits that I would be trying for years to curb; but Voldemort was quite the opposite.

I discovered on that first meeting, that he liked to smoke weed with his friends, and drank often. I was put off by this and prepared to my friend's house after being told that they were about to get high. In my car, saying goodbye and ready to pull away, Voldemort surprised me by claiming to not desire the distraction of weed in my company—saying he wanted to come with me and continue getting to know me. I was flattered, and looked forward to making this smart, funny, and not quite ripe boy, into something great.

Voldemort had soon introduced me to a completely different lifestyle. Growing up, my sisters and I never had permission to leave the house unless we were going to school. We would come home and were alone until the evening—cooking and cleaning, since our parents’ work schedules never allowed them the time; and the beatings we received for the messy house, or my father’s missing dinner, were not worth rebelling. On the weekends, we would be home, locked behind an iron gate—the key to which we did not have—and our friends would sometimes visit to play with us from the opposite side of the gate. It seemed normal to me. I had felt like a hostage for so long that being with Voldemort felt like freedom. With him, I had friends and was attending parties almost every night—where I found that alcohol made socializing easier.

I had wanted Voldemort to be a distraction—not a relationship. I knew that while I liked him, he was not exactly right for me. Still, I fell quickly—over-correcting from my previously perfect boyfriend—and ignored that there were more red flags than ground to christen.

I wasn't looking for anything serious, and I really want to take my time with this one, but I'm not about to shun him because I'm scared. We made plans to hangout today; but they seem to have gone to shit. I don't want to call him again. Instead, I sit here waiting for him. I'm always waiting

A couple of weeks in, a pattern developed where Voldemort would promise to call, or we would make plans, but I would always be left waiting for a promise never realized. I was blind to his lying and gaslighting. I took him at his word; and when I would get upset, he would apologize and we would move on. I felt so alone and trapped without him, that I ignored my instincts.

Right away, his drug use was an issue. I never asked him to, but Voldemort told me that he would quit smoking pot; and of course I was pleased with his decision. I wanted him to grow up—probably sooner than he was ready. I helped him find a job—working dispatch at an air conditioning repair company with my cousin—started taking him for regular jogs along the lake by my parents’ house, and treated him to clothes that actually fit.

Things seemed to be going in the right direction, but I was constantly filled with doubt. I doubted that the taste on Voldemort's lips after he had been with friends was in fact cigarettes, as he claimed, and not weed. I doubted that the way he was acting was normal; but I was a trusting and naive girlfriend, so I gave him the benefit of all of my very justified doubts.

Our first major hurdle was his religion. Voldemort's mother, Merope, had strict rules as to whom her son could and could not date. In her twenties, she had graduated from the University of Miami, and was on track to make something great of herself, when she met Voldemort’s father—a young, foreign student that was already betrothed to a woman in his home country. Following a brief affair, Merope became pregnant, and her lover went back to his country without another word. She was never the same after that—lost control of her health and weight, along with her life—never found use for her degree, and married an immigrant, well-digger with dreams of owning his own company—with whom she eventually had a daughter. Hoping to find truth and order, she became a Jehovah’s Witness, while her new husband remained a non-practicing Catholic.

Voldemort kept me secret from everyone except his secular friends; but not having any religious orientation of my own, I thought that I could learn about his, and perhaps I would like it and we would no longer have to hide our relationship. I told him how I felt and he cried. No one had ever thought to do that for him before. Like me, he was a hostage in a way, and I had told him he would no longer be alone.

It's surprising—being so in love that you've forgotten how you got there. You find yourself retracing your steps, only to discover that there's not a single moment that you can remember not being in love. Love is surprising.

I met his family and discussed converting. He understood that I would retain my beliefs, whatever they were, but wanted learn of his and make it so that we could be together. Unfortunately, I was instantly put off after attending only one meeting. I didn't mind jumping through whatever hoops I needed to, but was not about to embrace their truth. He said we couldn't be together after I expressed my opinion; and I told him he was a fool for throwing us away before we had really begun. He agreed; and the issue never came up again. I was no longer a secret and no longer converting but in hindsight, I should have let it end.

The lying escalated. Soon I was finding inappropriate conversations on his computer. He claimed other women were flirting with him and he was just trying to be polite; but I suspected that was not true. He always managed to make everyone feel special, like his best and only friend. I was sure he was doing to them what he had done to me, but had no concrete proof; so I let him convince me that I was being paranoid.

All the while, I was so concerned with whether or not he was getting high behind my back or romancing other girls, that I was blind to the more important issues. Our first and final fight was about sex. I had previously been sexually active with two others: my first love and my ex. Voldemort claimed to have been with a few women, but could not give me an exact number; not that I particularly cared, but I believed him when he said he was not the type to kiss and tell.

Following a few drunken hookups, we had a sober and unpleasant teenage tryst in the back seat of my ‘97 Kia Sportage. It was not at all what I had anticipated. His actions seemed awkward; and although I was the one who had initiated, I'd derived no pleasure. He appeared to be unable to finish as well; and when I finally asked what was wrong, he was unable to answer. We stopped and, overwhelmed, I cried—blaming myself for how badly it was going. He had been with so many other girls—I had thought—but could not enjoy sex with me. Sitting in my cramped car, he briefly comforted me, and then nervously admitted that not only had he finished right away and lied when I asked, but until me, he had been a virgin.

“Why lie about something so insignificant,” I asked. He replied that he was insecure and worried that I would not want to be with him if I had known the truth. While I was furious that he lied, I pitied him and accepted this apology, as I had all the others.

After having too much to drink at a friend's house one night, Voldemort escorted me to a bedroom. I was conscious enough to assume he was putting me to bed so I would sleep it off; but instead he began removing my clothes, repeating: “Shh... don’t worry. I'm taking you home.”

With my eyes closed, pushing him off of me, I argued that he was clearly not taking me home. He stopped—fairly drunk himself—and laughed. Innocent as I was, I did not realize the implications.

As a child—based on conversations with friends—I had concluded that sexual assault was something that happened to all girls at one point in their lives. I had never viewed it as assault however, so much as a disgusting rite of passage, and considered myself lucky for it having happened to me so early and in such a mild way—assuming I could check that box and be done with it.

I began sneaking him into my room at night and sneaking him out every morning. Each time, I would wake up in the middle of the night, and he would be having sex with me. “I was asleep too,” he would always say—leading me to believe that his sleeping body could not control itself while I laid next to him. I had never spent the night with a boy before, and assumed this was common—more so since he had just become sexually active.

Four months in, and the wildfire that was our initial coupling was burning out. I was ignoring my instincts, but they were still gnawing at me, creating depression-like symptoms, which caused me to long for my ex again. The freedom I had once felt, began to suffocate. I wanted out but didn't know how to cut the connection.

We would constantly fight—about sex, girls, lies—breakup, and get back together. I didn't trust him but more so, I didn't trust myself or my own feelings. Then one day, I ran into my ex and remembered what true desire—not trauma bonding—felt like.

I'm walking up to him with the rock of our past safe in my stomach, weighing me down. I want to tell him that I've missed him, that I dream of the day that the comfort we once had, is finally restored to where it belongs. I don't say a word. I find myself shaking. I sway back and forth in my shoes, which is the only thing I can do to keep myself from crying, short of pulling him towards me and kissing his face—I'm noticed. He smiles that smile I once knew so well, it's almost terrifying how well I knew it, how well I don't. Polite words are exchanged; we're strangers now. And as I walk away, I think of the man whom I lie to every day. "I never think of anyone else,” I would say, as my heart lingers on the image of another.

I begged the universe for a sign—something to tell me what to do—and that same day, the universe answered. While talking to a mutual friend, I mentioned that Voldemort had to take a drug test for a new job—he had not smoked since April, but bought a detox drink just in case. The friend replied that in reality, Voldemort had been smoking all along, even mentioning a time in which I was drunk, and he and Voldemort had actually smoked together, right next to me.

Having a concrete reason to breakup, I met with Voldemort and told him we could no longer be together. He cried and begged me not to leave; and while this was not our first breakup, it was the first time I felt completely secure in my decision, and baffled by his attempts to make me think that I was wrong. In that moment, I finally felt the anger I had been suppressing. Rage bubbled up inside of me, refusing to remain contained, and exploded out of my mouth and fists. “Let me leave,” I yelled as I shoved him away from me. In that moment, I expected to feel remorse, but instead I felt empowered.

Voldemort tried to prove he was changing his life for the better; but I remained in my resolve for about four months—our longest breakup until that point—when he adopted a new group of friends that I quickly fell in love with. They were a peculiar brand of millennial hippies, running their parents’ house rampant with parties; and it felt like freedom again. I let myself fall back into things with Voldemort, assuming it was my choice and that I was in control.

The doubt crept back in rather quickly. I caught Voldemort more than once being inappropriate with the girls in the group. He would peek in on them in the shower and claim it was a joke. He had also once again "quit smoking pot," but his hippie friends all smoked often; and I wasn't so dumb to believe them when they said he was abstaining. Eventually, their collective conscience got the best of them and they told me not to trust them—to trust my instincts. Someone in the group, unaware of their dissension, let it slip that he had just been with Voldemort buying weed; and that was the last time I saw them; but Voldemort and I remained broken up only for a short while. I could not quit him anymore than he could quit lying.

Where do you go when this perfect home, this perfect structure, this perfect frame of support comes crashing down on you? Who do you cry to when the only shoulder soft enough for your tear-soaked cheek has been buried in the rubble? What do you do when the straight line you've been tracing fades into the hand of the man with the shoulder, still underneath the crash? What do I do with these broken pieces?

In early 2005, we both applied for work at a local telemarketing firm which housed companies like Expedia.com, DirecTV, and Sprint Mobile. I started working for Expedia at one location, while Voldemort worked for Sprint at another.

Hoping to revive our quickly dying relationship, I bought Voldemort and I a trip to New York City for the anniversary of the day we met. It was not a particularly pleasant trip, but Voldemort and I had agreed that the city felt like home. We both wanted to go back to live one day.

After returning from New York, I met Thomas. He had been hired by Expedia, and assigned to sit with me and listen in on my calls. I was instantly attracted to him. We got along like old friends. I confided in him—venting my relationship frustrations. Thomas listened, mostly keeping his opinions to himself, until we realized that Thomas and Voldemort had gone to the same high school. He told me Voldemort had been expelled—that they still knew all of the same people and were often in the same gatherings. He admitted to thinking that my boyfriend was not a very good person, but failed to give me any sort of definitive evidence; or rather, I failed to listen—unable to reconcile Voldemort's actions with his words, and what seemed to be obvious potential.

Unhappy as I was, I quickly began developing feelings for Thomas—who had a girlfriend and unlike myself, was perfectly content in his relationship. Still, I came to him one day—asking him to kiss me and let his feelings decide with whom he should be. He kindly rejected me, and eventually began working the night shift.

In April of 2005, Voldemort and I attended a party at his friend’s house. After getting me drunk on cheap sangria—my new favorite drink—he offered me a Xanax. Having experimented with it many times, he knew its effects and claimed it would be safe and fun. I did not know anything about the drug, but being in an up-for-anything mindset, I trusted him. Before I blacked out, Voldemort had left me alone and naked in a bedroom, following an embarrassingly obvious drug and alcohol fueled romp. His friend walked in, sat next to me on the bed, and proceeded to fondle my breast until I managed to stop him. Voldemort did not believe or defend me when walked in a few moments later.

The only man that I was used to loving while being completely unable to trust, was my father. I could not trust him to be in a good mood when he got home from work. I could not trust him to not verbally and physically abuse my sisters and me for the crumbs on the floor, the dishes in the sink, or the excessive laughter coming from our bedroom. Finally, I knew with certainty that—like with my father—I could no longer neglect the obvious pattern of empty promises and emotional manipulation that I suffered with Voldemort.

I wish I could say that was the end, but it was only the beginning.

...when you read Missed Connections.

2018-03-09T13:30:00.000-08:00

NYC as seen from above

Long before I got married, I would peruse the Missed Connections section of Craigslist fairly regularly. I was obsessed with finding one about myself, but also wanted to talk myself into posting the one I had written about a guy I had been running into on the subway. That's not what I'm sharing with you today. I found a posting in 2014, which I don't have any info on--but it's too good not to share.

Every day I ride the subway I hope you'll be there. Sometimes you are, although you're never the same person twice so it's hard to be sure. Once a month I renew my unlimited, hoping it will tilt the odds in my favor. I rotate the books I read, always questioning whether this or that title will give you the right impression or create the right opportunity to bridge the chasm of urban alienation. I hope you like my shoes, because I noticed yours, they're perfectly suited for today. I hope I find you on a rainy day with adorable boots and an over-sized jacket and a wide brimmed hat, but missing a sturdy umbrella. Without a word we'll recognize the right moment, walk out side by side, and I'll open my umbrella for us both. Going my way? I hope so. Would you mind for a moment? Not at all. A day best served with tea. Agreed. Shall we? I was hoping you'd ask. To think, if it hadn't been raining. I normally hate when it rains. Me too.

This is what I wrote about that posting, which I think will sum up this post pretty well.

Perfection - I almost hoped it was written for me. I don’t think I’ll meet anyone that way necessarily, but I’d like to think there’s a subtle connection being made when I peer into a stranger’s soul via the short paragraph they post on that very public forum.

There’s something comforting in knowing that there are all of these people lost and looking for someone they hope to connect with - and on the opposite end, there are individuals being looked for and completely unaware. We’re all lost - we’re all looking - we’re all unaware.

...when you've had enough.

2018-03-08T12:58:00.002-08:00

I wasn't sure what to title this post, but do you guys remember the Jodi Arias case?

While it was going on, I became obsessed with staying up-to-date on everything the media uncovered. I wanted to know her motivations. I wanted to understand the reasoning behind her plot to drive to another state to visit, sleep with, and kill her ex-boyfriend. I wanted to know how a person could be pushed to comit murder, mainly because I felt myself going through just that sort of situation. At the time I had been in an abusive relationship, on and off for over 5 years, and I could see myself being victim, but more so, I could see myself exploding.

02/27/2013 1032pm

Ok I just thought of this idea for a book.. how the normal person becomes a killer: the psycho’s perspective.

I came up with this because.. now hear me out:

I’ve been really kind of obsessed with this whole Jodi Arias scandal. I’ve been riding the coattails on a pretty gruesome expedition that started with the discovery of that body in the water tower of the Cecil Hotel in LA. I began to look into the haunted history of that particular hotel, and more like it. That led me to the actual crimes that occurred. That branched into crimes of passion specifically.

Now since this case is currently happening, I’m following it minute to minute - getting the same view of Jodi as the judge and jury are getting. But what I see in her is also myself. Not because I could ever be so callous and careless with another human life, but because I can easily put myself in the logical reality that she is putting out there.

I see a girl that was potentially abused as a child, verbally and physically (perhaps sexually .) She was already traumatized and somehow didn’t really learn how to love or be loved. She was only ever shown pain and anger; and she was only ever taught to be submissive.

In comes this good-looking religious man, which appears to be relatively successful (his house looked nice in the crime scene photos (aside from the blood)) - she was damaged and saw a man she could “love”; so she loved him the only way she knew how. She put herself in a submissive position - and he wasn’t even the kind of man to put her there in the first place --- but she pushed him there just as much. She didn’t realize what she was doing.

I would have to write this first person since just writing this now makes me want to roll my eyes. (actual eye roll happened just before the break in paragraph occurred)*

I’m having a hard time putting myself all there... her mind isn’t like mine. She rationalized, and she manipulated HERSELF.

i needed his car - i didn’t know how to ask him, but I know what would make him say yes.. so i played up the pet names and baby talk, and i made sure to call him the best once he said yes.

It’s really hard for me to rationalize it with my brain. I’m overly analytical and emotional about these kinds of things -- I came from an abusive household so I can sorta see how that can turn you into an abuser. I am aware of this so I actively stop it -- she seems like she’s not. Or maybe she’s a sociopath and she just does not care. I believe she’s lying about the events but I don’t think she knows that what she’s doing is wrong.

no i liked it sometimes but a lot of the times it was stressful. [Stressful How?] well in the way that he tied me the fuck up like an animal and whipped and chained me repeatedly while i cried. i can’t tell them that. ~ well he would get angry and chase me around the house ~ that pretty much gets me the same desired effect. [So Because Of His Anger And “Chasing You Around The House” Your Sex Together Was Stressful - At Times] yes it was.... strained [You Are Going To Have To Elaborate] i was stressed thinking i was going to die when his hands were around my neck as he jack-rabbitted inside of me until he came like a 14 year old school boy ~ i couldn’t really become aroused all the time so when he would ask for sex i would either have to comply or make him angry - which as i mentioned, is stressful.

I think you get the point... only I would have to make it so that I’m using real testimony after the italics - it makes it more of a challenge to come up with the “rationalization”, but it makes it feel authentic.

I never did write that book. Following another explosive fight in early 2013, I broke it off with my abuser and began to realize my dream of living in New York City. My ex would be in my life for just another year.

...when you come across old journals.

2018-03-05T11:18:00.000-08:00

windmill in front of my parent's house

I recently discovered a show on Netflix called The Mortified Guide. If you haven't seen it yet, I highly recommend it. There is also a corresponding podcast so look that up.

Anyway, it's basically adults reading from their adolescent diaries and journals. Their framed as complete stories and all come full circle, and I'm obsessed. I'm already a huge fan of storytelling podcasts to begin with, but add to that an element of embarrassment and reading over old diaries, and how could you not be obsessed.

I actually wrote a memoir based off of my old diaries. This memoir is supposed to be serious, and dramatic, much like how it felt when I was writing those entries. I knew the feeling didn't translate for others, but I didn't realize that it would be more comedic than dramatic for the reader.

Having said all that, I'm going to go ahead and post some of my old diary entries. Maybe there will be a good story in one of them.

This first one I wrote about my first love. We were each other's "firsts" -- you know what that means -- so I had a hard time letting go.

I used to love his smell. It was the smell of comfort, of routine.
How could I possibly describe that?
It was just his smell. Scents are often connected to memories,
and I suppose that’s what it was—he smelled of memories.
I struggled for a long time to keep grasp of those memories,
and now I’ve forgotten.
I’ve forgotten the specific shade of his eyes, and the texture of his hands.
I’ve forgotten the sound of his laugh and the taste of his lips;
but his smell I can’t seem to forget.
We were together for over a year, my first love and I.
And while it was an amazing year, we were constantly
forcing together the seams of our relationship teddy bear—
knowing he would eventually lose his little arms and legs.
Putting aside our disagreements, I loved him completely.
When we began our journey together, we kept our eyes closed,
hoping to be surprised by love the whole way through—
instead finding ourselves constantly bumping into walls.
That’s what ultimately led to our destruction.
He never seemed to let anything hold him back—
thinking that he could fly above the walls,
but always leaving me behind. It was not all his fault.
No matter how much we seemed to want to be together,
we were similar magnets.
We do not speak much anymore. I can’t really describe the sound of his voice,
but his smell I still remember.

Firsts of all, his smell?? Gross. I'm surprised I hadn't noticed how funny this was before. I took it all so seriously. I was so in love. Plus, I was way too metaphorical. He cheated on me. And we broke up and got back together too many times to remember.

After my first love, I met and dated someone else, became obsessed--as I do--and was dumped. I did not get over that guy for like another 6 years. It was bad. This next and last entry was over a year and a half after we had broken up. I was dating someone else.

June 15, 2005
Do not call your ex boyfriend in a drunken rage, with anger in you bones just ready to kill any living thing in your path. Do not call this ex boyfriend and pretend to not think highly about him at all, for you know that you still do. And certainly do not pretend to not care about him anymore at all, because we all know that it's just a horrid lie. All of this will just lead to you saying horrible things that you just don't mean, which will result in him never wanting to talk to you again.. and even though this may seem like the most perfect thing in the world when you're doing all of this, it won't be. You'll end up regretting it all, only to call him a few months down the line, and feel more like an ass than ever.
Since that's been said, I can now proceed to tell you that I've done just that.. and tonight, on my way home, I'm thinking: Let's call Leo and see how he's doing. We'll have a nice little chat about nothing.. and who knows, it might be nice.. yea.. no.
I call him and first I can't hear a thing cause I'm blasting some Shakira song that's about love and what not, and my cell phone is being retarded. So even though I couldn't hear him, I'm sure he could hear my Shakira song.. what the hell would he have been thinking. He hangs up.. and I should've take this as a sign.. yea.. I didn't. I call him again, and this time he picks up. All the while I'm thinking: who is this that I'm talking to, because this can't possibly be him. His voice sounds so different, so unlike someone that I was in love with and completely devoted to for over a year. But it's him, just not that person anymore I guess. So yeah.. he's all like "umm.. who is this".. then I pull one of those dumb "guess" things. And I think he mumbled something that sounded like "who is this" or "Kristie". I tell him it's Jane.. and he's all like.. "oh.. well I'm at a get together with some friends right now." all I can say is "oh.. OK.. well I just had an urge to see how you were doing and thought of [bringing myself further pain by destroying my remaining ounces of dignity and] calling you. I guess I'll talk to you [never again since you'll never call me and after this, god knows i'm not going to be able to call you or] whenever.. bye" **click** You know what this means. This means that when I called him over two months ago because I wanted to talk and vent and let him know how I felt, and that I was sorry about that time when my judgement had been drenched in liquor, that day he said that he would get back to me in a month or so to arrange something.. because he was really busy with his life that didn't include me.. and that he'd call me when he felt ready, well he didn't even save my number.. hence him not knowing who it was.. therefore he clearly had no intention of calling me at all.
Please tie me up so that I can no longer torture myself the way I seem to do. I'm a little upset. I hate that I have to walk on egg shells with him. And not even with him.. but with the idea of him. There is no him... he's just this memory that I have and wish to keep touch with.. but it's not going to happen.
I feel strange. Nothing really definable.. just as if I have a hair out of place, and it's bothering me.. but I can't seem to identify the hair, let alone the problem. Alex and I had a bit of a quarrel today.. but I won't really get into that.. the only thing I'll say is that I refuse to be censored. God damn it. Somethings not right but I can't put my finger on it.. you know what it's like... it's kinda like when you feel like you've forgotten something at home.. and it's something that you can't turn around to go get, but still, you have absolutely no idea what it could be, yet you cant seem to silence that feeling.. That bullhorn of a feeling.
I wish I could read your mind. I wish I could look into your soul.. I wish you wouldn't push me away the way you do.. you don't even know you do it.. it's so subconscious. It's not all the time.. and I know it's not just the way you are, because just that.. it's not like that all the time. But sometimes you build this wall around yourself and it's hard enough for me to see you over that thing, let alone get to you. And it's not the fact that you're keeping something, it's that you feel that way because of some thing I've said and done.. and I know it, but you won't express to me what I've done wrong.. and then I have no control over the situation at all.. and lacking control is a horrible feeling. If you would just let me in, I could fix it. I promise. You just have to let me in.
I need Janelys in my life so badly. I didn't even know it was the way it is until today. I need her in my life. I need to talk to her.. I need to see her. I need her to bring me back down to reality when my head is carrying me away from everything.. with all these thoughts and emotions that I can't rationalize.
I need sleep.

🤦I don't even know what to say about that.

I was able to log into my old Live Journal account today so I think I'll put together a "Mortified" style story for you guys to read tomorrow. In the meantime, feel free to let me know how ridiculous I was, in the comments.

...when kids grow up.

2018-03-02T15:30:00.000-08:00

Thanks, Google! I love this video of Rowan over the years.

...when you're a runner.

2018-03-02T08:24:00.000-08:00

Something about running in the early morning, slightly stoned and fully caffeinated, with the right song to guide you along ringing in your headphones, that feels comparable to flying. Every little thing has it’s own peak. Lip syncing along to well-known lyrics, giving yourself a mouthful of air with every soundless belt; feeling your legs pumping effortlessly along with the beat; wind in your hair and endorphins coursing through your whole body. Nearly invisible, and completely unreachable, you soar through the park unfazed--in zone. There’s something about that which sets your day up to be tackled.

...when you visit San Francisco.

2018-03-01T14:30:00.000-08:00

Thomas, Rowan, and I made this trip a few months ago. It was the first road-trip since our drive across the country, which was back when I was the only licensed driver. This time, Thomas drove the whole way there and back. So I had a chance to appreciate the scenery.

Unfortunately, we weren't able to get a very good picture of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Fisherman's Wharf was definitely the highlight.

Next time we'll take more pictures. Definitely worth the drive.

...when you adopt cats.

2018-03-01T13:50:00.002-08:00

Meet Charlie Chaplin and Honey Bee. We adopted them just over a year ago, on February 13th.

My family and I drove across the country last December, moving from our home in New York City to L.A. This move further isolated us from our families in Miami--where we're both originally from--so a couple of months in, we decided to expand our clan with these two furbabies, giving our unemployed selves something new to do and care for.

The first night we brought them home, Honey managed to get comfortable after just a couple of hours--letting us play with her and pet her a bit--but Charlie was not having it. He hid in the tiny cat condo we bought them, and refused to come out until after we had fallen asleep. To help them get used to us, we decided to spend the first couple of nights in the living room with them, not letting them have run of the whole house.

After two nights of more of the same, we woke up in the living room to find Charlie missing. He was obviously a shy kitty so we both figured he was hiding. We searched the house for hours. Checking-in with all the cat forums, we discovered how common this cat trick really is. "Be patient," everyone told us; "he'll come out eventually." But after 5 days, we lost hope.

The house we live in has a fire place. We tore apart the kitchen, laundry room, living room, and even rooms they had no access to. Then we checked the fireplace. Finding what appeared to be cat hair and paw prints, we assumed he'd somehow climbed up and out of the fireplace.

We were so devastated, but continued to leave food out for him, just in case he managed to hide in the walls and would eventually come out.

On the 6th day, alone in my apartment, I heard a noise in the kitchen. Looking to see Honey in front of me by the TV, I knew it wasn't her. I get up to see, there on the counter, a second cat--one that's much too quick and skittish for me to reach in time before he darts off and disappears again. I didn't even have a chance to see where he hid.

As soon as Thomas got home, I told him I'd seen Charlie. Of course he didn't believe me. We hadn't seen or heard from that cat in almost a week. We'd moved the appliances, checked under and inside all the furniture, looked absolutely every where.

Even so, we bought and installed a camera, and turned it on in the kitchen, to see if we could spot him.

We put food and water near, along with a litter box, and waited. Eventually, we spotted a little paw creeping out from underneath the cabinets! But where was he?? We would open the cabinets and there would be nothing but pots and pans and Tupperware--no Charlie.

Finally we discovered a negative space in the corner within the cabinet, underneath the counter. The board along the bottom was not a board at all but a rubber strip that could easily be manipulated by a terrified cat looking to squeeze through and hide.

At first we left him in there, to allow him time to come out when he was ready, but he wasn't eating and we got impatient. After another day or two, we began to actively coax him out. Then Thomas managed to get a leash around his collar, which we used to slowly pull him from the space. He was not happy. He hissed, and scratched, protesting to be left alone, until finally, sinking his teeth into Thomas' finger, completely cracking his finger nail. "Charlie bit my finger," Thomas joked; but his poor nail took 2 or 3 months to heal.

That's when I decided, no more coaxing. I pulled him out, put him in the bathroom with the help of a towel and quick thinking, and left him there with the essentials until we could come up with an alternative. We were so happy he was okay, but so sorry we had to put him through further trauma to get him out.

The next day, we took him out of the bathroom and put him in a kennel until we were able to get a large cage where he could roam, that would allow us to keep an eye on him.

Placing the kennel, a litter box, and the cat condo in the large cage, Charlie was able to hide in plain sight. The security of the cage gave him confidence, and just a few day in, he began to play.

After a couple of weeks, we felt comfortable enough opening his cage and letting him explore.

Which meant him and Honey could get reacquainted.

Soon, Charlie became even sweeter than Honey.

We removed the cage, the kennels, and eventually, even the cat condo was abandoned.

A year later, and it seems we've all found a home.

...when we forgets me.

2018-02-28T19:59:00.000-08:00

I was thinking earlier this week--or rather, last week--that we are one. What I meant by that is that my husband and I are one. But really, because of everything that’s has happened recently—the mass shooting in Parkland, Florida (an area of the country I was not unfamiliar with) –I feel more than ever the importance of our being one as a species. It’s ridiculous that we cannot see that.

We pick each other apart to make things interesting, or because we’re scared and don’t know who to blame or what to do or where to turn. We fail to realize that we're all the same. Humans differ superficially but we all need food, we all create waste, we all feel a need/pull/obligation towards family. We should protect each other. See one another as we are--copies, if distant, of each other. We know how kindness feels, how pain feels, how shame feels.

Upside-down we go -- from We to Me we go. Society splits. Tribes split. Cities. Boundaries. Limits. Borders. War. Fear. We create stories because we’re afraid. We paint the other as something foreign. We forgets me.

I am outraged and deeply saddened by this whole thing, because I’m human, but as the parent of a kid in school, I am terrified. This happens everywhere. It can happen anywhere. Those kids thought they were safe. Their parents, grandparents, siblings, friends thought they were safe. It’s certainly true that this life is finite, and we can go at any time and for any reason, but why must we help it along in this way? It’s one thing to live a life of excess, taking too many risks with your health--having fun and hurting only yourself along the way--but to create and distribute life ending machines--guns--for what? Our kids are being massacred.

Maybe this is a necessity, and merely a single domino in the mosaic of falling dominoes that is existence, tumbling forward to propel actions and outcomes that we cannot yet conceive of. But maybe the action is that we’re stubborn as shit and can’t seem to give up our guns unless a fuck ton of people die.

We are being shaken by the shoulders and asked to witness something--to stay awake to something--to give voice to something.

Here’s the thing: we are one. We need to act as one, or we will all suffer.

It feels like all we do is push products. Meaningless trifles and things that merely clutter our planet and don’t seem to fill the void within us. We’re looking for an external source of satisfaction, when what we should be doing is exploring ourselves. Getting to know one another and the person inside -- the soul -- the feeling part of us that is all nerve-endings filled with blind instinct, encased in muscles and skin. We feel that prickly, pulsating sensation of warmth that dances in our chest, but it’s not until we connect the thought we’ve had at the instance of said feeling, that we can discern which emotion it’s connected to. We were amid potential danger--experiencing fear; we were encountering a love interest--experiencing lust.

If we explored our own emotions and the triggers within us, we would be better able to understand ourselves, and thus each other. But instead we busy ourselves with things because they make us feel good, and judge others on the way they choose to feel good, not realizing that we’re only judging ourselves. Dopamine junkies, the lot of us. Going from stress-high to stress-high. Living for the highs and lows of the 9-5. Did you get your assignment done in time for deadline? Did you make the sales goal? Did you make that presentation? Even the most mundane of it has an element of excitement that we fail to notice, but we’re so focused on what we’re doing--running the rat race; planning for a potential future we have no real control over. We’re blind to the life we should be living. Rewarding ourselves--for the failed potential and grinding it out for another man’s bottom line--with pints of ice cream, sex, gambling, alcohol, drugs. Shaving years off our life, planning for a future we don’t even know will come. Why do we do it? Because that’s how it’s done? Do you know who did it that way? People just like you. People that weren’t sure if what they were doing was right. They did it that way because that’s what they knew at the time, or that’s what worked for them. But we know better now, don’t we?

We need better now.

Stop for a moment and look at what you’re holding onto. Does it really matter in the end?

It’s sad when you think about how silly this all is. A simple miscommunication. Like in the recent Black Panther -- family raised apart that didn’t know any better -- fighting the same battle from different sides. It’s silly.

...when you're the tickle monster.

2012-07-20T21:13:00.000-07:00

I never make my bed. I know - that's horrible. I wish I could, but I have a small

child that wouldn't let me have a nice made bed even if I really wanted it.

Rowan and I had a little bedroom photo-shoot today, so I decided to

"make" the bed [look made].

In this shot, Rowan's taking the sheets and pillows off of the bed.

bare bed

He FORCED me to become the tickle monster.

I didn't want to.

But he just wouldn't stop laughing.

And there's nothing like a child's laughter to turn a mom into a monster.

I was trying to get a decent shot of the little pink flower earrings; instead I got

a shot of Rowan playing with the garbage can on my bed, behind my back....

I'll be changing the sheets before I go to bed.

I took this picture after he fell asleep - that's a small jar of wine in my hand :)

I just had to get a shot of the jacket with this look. I wore this for a couple of

hours at work, in the morning; but by ten it was too hot for life, let alone a jacket.
This whole look is centered around the necklace - which I'm currently obsessed
with. You'll definitely see it more often. Let me know what you think! xoxo

top - A&F
jeans - WetSeal
shoes & jacket - Forever 21

...when you go green.

2012-07-20T15:07:00.005-07:00

My favorite color just so happens to be green.

I love the vibrant green of the trees behind me, in these shot. We'll credit
David, the photographer, for choosing this complimentary location.

I wore this cardigan once before - also with a green necklace, coincidentally.
The skirt you may recognize from here and here.

I hate when I own two items of the same color that aren't the same tone/shade,
which would look lovely together if not for that.

This luckily wasn't the case here -- both items had the same silver and
matching-shade-of-green combo.

The yellow pumps are perfect in this look -- and just about every look.

Below are a few pieces I found, inspired by the look above. I hope you like it <3
Happy Friday!! :)

Green by bellojane featuring high heel pumps

...when you become obsessed with jewelry.

2012-07-18T16:25:00.002-07:00

I know it's been a little since I last posted but I've actually had a bit of a

"blogger's block". Not having the extra money to buy cute new pieces

regularly, I was having a little trouble keeping my looks different and new.

Just when I thought I would never post again, Chris showed up at my house

with this beautiful vintage jewelry box filled with amazing jewelry.

I immediately cleaned it and added my jewelry to the collection.

Earrings and rings galore!

And another drawer filled with earrings!

This is my "little" necklace and bangle basket. I love all the colors and textures.

This necklace stood out the most to me -- so funky and trendy considering

the piece is over 20 years old.

And this lovely classic necklace will go amazingly with everything - I can't wait to wear it!

This necklace is one of the ones I got from my mom a couple of weeks ago --

I just had to include it in these shots. Those are emeralds in the rams' eyes!

I couldn't be happier with this new addition to my closet and wardrobe!

Thanks to David joining the workforce again, I'll be able to afford monthly

trips to Plato's so I'll be updating more often... I PROMISE! ;)

PS - I love reading your comments so please keep 'em coming <3

...when you dress for the summer.

2012-07-06T18:52:00.001-07:00

I wanted to wear something comfy to work today - it being the last day of

a very lazy week.

I chose light fabrics to stave off the horrific summer heat.

The teal cuff and necklace, courtesy of mom's collection, add a fun detail of
color in the very pale ensemble

I love the sprinkling of brown in this look from the booties, belt buckle, and watch strap.

I wore this cardigan in the office all day -- but once I left the safety of

the air conditioning (yes, my car doesn't have a/c) I stripped it off.

The details in this necklace are charming -- it really fits the look well.

And the bright pink cardigan is the perfect accent of color.

top - Ross

skirt - Old Navy

belt - Charlotte Russe

shoes - Steve Madden

I am in love with the shoes below!!! Let me know what you think of this look
and the set. <3

White Skirt by bellojane featuring peasant skirts